To Hell and Back
by Luthien17
Summary: "If we don't get any help soon, Captain, I fear this is the musketeers' last stand". Île-de-Ré, 1627: Buckingham is besieging the island and the young brotherhood of three men is tested when they get embroiled in a long, cruel and bloody conflict. They spend weeks exposed to the gunfire, with no end in sight. Pre-Series.
1. Prologue

_Disclaimer: I do not own anything. All rights belong to Alexandre Dumas and the BBC._

_**Warnings**: I know this is rated T, but I'm giving out several warnings. This is a pre-series war story. It's going to be violent, cruel, bloody and everything else you'd expect from stories of this kind, with plenty of adventure, action, some drama and overall h/c. But I promise some friendship/brotherly moments throughout the story, so don't worry. Athos, Porthos and Aramis are all included. Beforehand, I'd like to state that updates may be irregularly. I'm still writing this story, it isn't finished yet. So every now and again, updates may/will be delayed. I've been working for about a year so far.  
Special Thanks to Mountain Cat for proof-reading this for me, and helping me out with all of the different problems that occured. This work is definitely a co-production._

_Enjoy._

* * *

**I. Prologue**

_Oh gather 'round me, and listen while I speak  
of a war, where hell is six feet deep  
And all along the shore, where cannons still roar  
They're haunting my dreams, they're still there when I sleep  
-'To Hell and Back' by Sabaton_

There had been times when he had hated the screams echoing through the fortress, there had been times when he would have given anything to calm the atmosphere, to drown out all of the noises. But the silence now was oppressive, and it burned itself deep into his heart and soul, tearing every nerve he had left.

He was standing at a wooden table, his hands on the desk, his face hidden by the curtain of sweaty hair. His knees were trembling, and his whole body shaking with exhaustion. A small trail of blood ran down his left arm and stained the dark wood of the table red.

For a while he wasn't able to notice anything but his own, unsteady breathing, as well as the blood pounding in his ears. He wasn't even able to name all the emotions crowding in upon him.

There was exhaustion, weariness and worry, but there was also anger, disappointment and fear. But despite all, and despite his dire situation, there was still a spark of hope in his heart, filled with the desire to fight, filled with confidence in his brothers.

"Athos?"

He looked up into the eyes of Mathis, a musketeer, standing in the entrance of the little tent. The soldier met Athos' look with an expression of worry on his face, his chin held high.

"What is it?" Athos' voice sounded very distant in his own ears.

"The evening patrol reports some suspicious movement west of here."

Athos released a stuttering breath and nodded.

"Any news from Aramis?" he asked, but Mathis just shook his head and dropped his gaze to the ground, his lips pressed together tightly.

"Porthos and the others?" Athos dug deeper, desperately searching for any kind of reassurance.

"Holdin' on," Mathis reported briefly, but his tone told Athos that there was not much left to say. The truth about the past weeks, and the truth about their whole situation, hung in the air, unspoken and threatening.

Athos slowly reached for the quill to his right as he made a decision.

"What are you going to do?" Mathis asked with a spark of curiosity.

Athos swallowed hard, before he grabbed a piece of paper and started writing with his shaking hand.

"I'm going to write to the Captain. One last time."

* * *

_The Garrison, Paris, Late September 1627_

Through a crowded alley, a few riders made their way through the people, carefully steering their horses towards the garrison of the King's musketeers. The hooves clattered over the cobblestone, and drowned out most of the conversations on the street.

One of the riders spurred his horse to a faster pace and caught up with the leader of the group. His eyes were narrowed suspiciously, and his whole body was tense.

"Captain, wait," he addressed his superior, and the leader, Captain Tréville, leaned over to his soldier.

"What is it, Ecale?"

"Something's going on there...," Ecale pointed towards the musketeer garrison. Loud voices and the sound of shattering glass could be heard from behind the giant gate.

The musketeer's worry was mirrored on the Captain's face, and without wasting more time, he dug his heels into his horse's flanks and rode towards the gate, which two other guards hurried to open very quickly.

The scene that greeted Treville was a little grotesque, but nothing he hadn't witnessed before. The table, which Serge had purchased only a couple of months ago, was shattered, and there were weapons, pistols and rapiers, scattered all over the courtyard.

In the middle, Tréville could see the source of the turmoil and he dismounted quickly before he joined the men assembled there.

"Gérard, what's going on?" he demanded, his cold voice cutting through the scene like iron. Musketeer Gerard and two of his comrades were busy pinning a man to the ground. The victim was yelling and throwing punches in all directions, and the three men had a hard time keeping him under control.

"Gérard!" Tréville repeated sharply, and the musketeer finally looked up. He threw a questioning look towards his brothers, but once they assured him they had things under control he straightened up and faced his Captain.

"We arrested this man a short distance south of Paris," Gérard reported through clenched teeth as he threw a hateful glance at their prisoner.

"Then why is he here and not behind bars?" Tréville asked indifferently and raised an eyebrow. "What did you arrest him for?"

Gérard swallowed. "At first, he was the main suspect in the smuggling of stolen wares up north to the Spanish Netherlands. We wanted to make him talk, he acted very strange and then..." Gérard sighed and reached inside his jacket with one hand. He pulled out a handful of letters, dusty, creased papers stained with dirt and blood. "Then we found these, Sir. He had a whole lot of them. All sealed, and all of them addressed to you."

Tréville managed to hide his surprise and shock behind his Captain's mask, and he took the letters without hesitation.

"Where do they come from?" His own voice sounded very distant. He turned towards the struggling prisoner. "How long did you...?" He wanted to make a step forward, but Gérard held him back and raised a placating hand.

"La Rochelle and Ile-de-Ré mostly," he answered. "And those letters should have been delivered to you weeks ago. Whoever this man is, or whoever he works for, they wanted to make sure that the information in those letters never reached you."

Tréville blinked at the musketeer for a moment, and tried to get his anger back under control. Then, he turned on his heel, turning his back to the prisoner, before he grasped one of the letters in his hands and unfolded it.

He was greeted with the words he had been awaiting for months, and he recognized the handwriting of Athos.

_Captain,_

_The Commander ordered us to set up a camp on the other side of the island, with the intention of forcing Buckingham to stop the siege. Little did I know that we would end up being the main target. At the moment, we're fighting back, but if they continue to attack us at this rate, I'm not sure how long we can hold on without reinforcements. _

Tréville frowned. He had waited weeks to receive the reports he had asked from Athos. He hadn't heard anything since the musketeers were forced to retreat to the Ile-de-Ré, and somewhere deep inside, he had thought that there was an unpleasant reason for that. He quickly unfolded more of those letters, very well aware of the musketeers in the courtyard that continued to stare at him. His eyes flew over the papers, and every now and again, a fragment of a sentence burned itself into his mind. Most of the times, it was Athos' or Aramis' neat and cursive handwriting, but every now and again, he also recognized Porthos' crookedly written words.

_...they call him the butcher of La Rochelle..._

_...buildings were under attack..._

_...there's no way to get through to the citadel..._

_...we had to cut the rations, and nobody's happy about it..._

_...I don't know how much longer we can give you these reports. I mean no offense, but there are different things that require my attention at the moment... _

_...the General is ignorant to think his plan will work. He doesn't listen to us, and it may cost us more than our pride..._

_...we lost good men today, and we are still trying to save others. Right now, we are the only thing standing between the __enemy __and the civilians..._

"Who?" Tréville's voice was nothing but a growl, and without hesitation, he locked his hand around the prisoner's throat. "Who paid you to make sure I received none of these letters?"

The man's grey eyes stared at Tréville, and his mouth formed a disgusting smile. "It's war," he rasped. "And I chose to be on the winning side."

"Search him," Tréville ordered, and Ecale just nodded briefly before roughly searching the brown coat the stranger wore.

"Well...," Ecale exclaimed and the sound of metal clanking against metal assured the Captain that the musketeers had found this man's payment. Ecale opened a little leather bag and took two of the coins between his fingers.

"English," he stated, without having to look twice. His worried eyes found Tréville. "He's working for..."

"...Buckingham," Tréville finished and let go of the stranger's throat. "Get him into the Bastille."

"The Bastille?" the man echoed, and suddenly, a flash of fear crossed his face. "No, Captain, you can't do that. It's just a few letters. I didn't..."

"You stand accused of treason, and you stand accused of murder. You can consider yourself lucky if the King decides that you get a lifelong stay in the Bastille rather than a date with the official executioner."

"Murder?" the prisoner repeated, his voice shaky. "I didn't murder anyone, I swear." He almost seemed to beg for forgiveness..

The Captain just glared at him, and raised the hand holding the letters.

"Do you have any idea how many men paid with their lives because those letters didn't reach me in time?"

The man started throwing random punches in an attempt to break free, but three musketeers had him surrounded at once and arrested him.

Tréville turned away from the still struggling prisoner, and started unfolding the last one of the letters, the only one that apparently hadn't been sealed properly.

He noticed the ragged handwriting, and the blood spots in the corners of the paper. This had been written in haste and under some duress. While the screams of the man the musketeers had arrested echoed through the garrison's courtyard, Treville took a deep breath and let his eyes soak in every word he could decipher.

_The musketeer company is completely isolated. Buckingham himself ambushed us yesterday, and the location or fate of many of our men is uncertain. As far as we know, Commander Décart has been able to force Buckingham's troops __onto the defensive__ for now. The siege is still going on._

_We are still on our own, and we're running out of supplies. The English have us surrounded, and they are besieging our fortress. Half of our men are missing or dead, the other half __are__ injured, or too weak to put up __much of a__ fight._

_If we don't get __some__ sort of help soon, I fear that this might be the musketeers' last stand. _

_Athos_

Treville's eyes were wide open with horror, and he was very well aware of the dozens of eyes that were focused on him. The Captain gulped and he suddenly looked up, facing his men.

"Gérard, assemble four companies of les Gardes francaises. If there are any problems, I will talk to Richelieu. Ecale, send immediate word to the troops near la Rochelle. They are to send as many supplies and reinforcements as possible over to Ré Island."

"Captain..." Gérard tried, but Treville cut him off.

"Now!"

The musketeers nodded and hurried to get their tasks done. Treville remained in the center of the garrison's courtyard, the last letter still between the fingers of his shaking hand.

His eyes found the top of the letter, and they locked onto the date. The date this letter had been written, the date where his men had urgently asked for help.

It was five days ago.

* * *

_Important: The siege of __Ile__ de Ré in 1627 serves as historical background. However, I changed most of the historical names (except Buckingham) and a lot of other stuff that probably did not happen that way during the siege. _


	2. Dark Night at Saint-Blanceau

**II. Dark Night at Saint-Blanceau**

_July 1627, the beach of Saint-Blanceau, Ile de Ré_

"Everybody, take your positions, prepare to fire!"

Athos' command spread through the rows of men gathered behind the dunes. He turned his head to the left, and then to the right, taking notice of the lines of men lying low on the ground, anticipating and waiting.

"It seems like at least the weather is on our side." That was Aramis' voice. The marksman was lying on the ground next to Athos, together with at least twenty other marksmen. He had a musket prepared and ready to fire, his eyes narrowed as he tried to see what was happening on the beach.

Porthos, to Athos' left, drew his weapon and grunted. "Hell, my eyes get all teary due to this damn wind."

Athos sighed. "The wind will make it even harder for them to bring their boats ashore," he stated mildly, his eyes locked on the torch fires in the distance.

It had been over two years since he had joined the regiment of the musketeers, and since he had met Aramis and Porthos on the exact same island where they now waited for the English attack. Deep inside, he had hoped he would never have to go here again, but the situation in La Rochelle had derailed out of the King's control.

They had been sent as reinforcements to join the infantry under the command of Jules Decart in order to protect the island against possible assault by the English. They had valid information that the Duke of Buckingham, having been prevented from landing at the port of La Rochelle with his men, was aiming for this island now.

Following Richelieu's orders, Captain Tréville had sent some of his men to Décart's troops, and he had given Athos, Aramis and Porthos the lead here. The three of them had the authority to take care of the musketeer division, but in the end, they were to follow Commander Decart's orders.

Nobody but Athos had been surprised by this, but the swordsman wasn't sure yet how to handle the responsibility Tréville had put on his shoulders. Aramis and Porthos had agreed that Athos was the most capable of leading the men, so most of the responsibility fell back on him.

Their arrival had been too chaotic, and despite the fact that the musketeer detachment was taking orders from Commander Décart, they formed their own independent battalion. For now, at least.

"That's...oh, merde. Athos?" Aramis called to his friend as he watched the stormy sea with narrowed eyes.

"Yes?" Athos knelt down, trying to look for whatever Aramis' eyes had spotted.

"They're here." Aramis sounded calm and composed, but Athos could see the sheer shock in his eyes as he watched the dark silhouettes of ships in the distance.

Porthos, on Athos' other side, exhaled slowly. "Shit. Those are far more than we thought. At least sixty ships. Probably more."

"Buckingham's fleet," Athos explained carefully, his hand locked around his musket. "We should inform the Commander."

"The Commander has eyes himself, Athos," Porthos grumbled. "We don't need to tell him."

"No," Athos hissed. "But we have to follow his orders." He shot his brothers-in-arms a questioning look, noticing how nobody even tried to take the lead here.

He snorted. "Let me guess, I get to talk to Decart again?"

Porthos merely shrugged. "The man made it very obvious he doesn't have much respect for me."

Aramis didn't divert his gaze from the shore. "I clearly dislike the Commander, and I'm lacking the self-control to hide the fact from him, I'm afraid."

Athos rolled his eyes and propped up on his elbows. It wasn't news to him. Aramis, Porthos and Athos were equal in rank, and all three had been given the lead for reasons only Tréville knew. But for some reason, Athos had become the unofficial spokesman for them.

"Fine," he hissed eventually. "Nobody shoots unless they have orders from either the Commander or me, clear?"

Aramis nodded, not looking up once. "Hurry."

Athos didn't waste another second and crawled backwards, until he was safe to stand up again. The darkness of the night gave them cover, but he preferred to stay safely hidden behind the dunes.

He passed a few lines of French soldiers, those who were under Captain Méchant's command. Méchant was focused on the ships too, and he was quietly giving orders to his marksmen, making wide gestures in the process.

Athos approached from behind, and carefully put a hand on Méchant's arm. The man jerked in surprise and once his gaze fell on Athos, he exhaled slowly and crawled backwards into the cover of the night. He was a tall, lean man, with his black hair tied neatly at his neck.

"What is it, musketeer?"

Méchant, for some reason, didn't think that highly of the musketeer company among the army. Athos knew he was a nobleman from the North, and the fact that he had spent many years with his kind and knew how to talk to them was probably the only reason why he received a little respect from him. Méchant was maybe thirty years old, the second son of a powerful noble, and he was certain that noble blood made a man a better leader and it granted him a higher position in society by nature.

Athos might think differently, but he had learnt not to take the Captain too personally or too seriously. However, Méchant, despite his difficult personality, was a good leader, and he cared about his men. Athos respected that.

"Where's the Commander?" Athos asked straight away.

Méchant furrowed his brow. "Why? We have our orders."

Athos scowled. "We have orders to shoot on sight. Have you seen how many Englishmen plan to come ashore here? Have you seen how many ships there are?"

Méchant sighed. "Yes, I have. Our position is vulnerable, I agree. But the Commander was quite clear about the orders."

"Just tell me where he is," Athos repeated impatiently.

The Captain pointed into the western direction. "Not far, maybe fifty metres. At least last time I saw him. It's a dark night."

Athos just grunted and tipped his hat. "It is."

With those words, he ended the conversation and left to search for the Commander. He headed west, into the cover of the trees, passing yet another regiment of infantry.

He found Commander Décart on horseback among some other high-ranked officers, his eyes narrowed as he worriedly observed the English ships in the distance. He wore a hat, which plunged most of his face in darkness, but Athos felt the stare out of the pale grey eyes even from afar.

"Athos," the man greeted him with an indifferent tone in his voice.

"Sir." Athos tilted his head as a respectful greeting, but didn't waste more time. He knew the Commander valued brevity. "I come to ask for new orders," he said with a determined expression on his face, not diverting his gaze from his superior.

Décart exchanged a look with his neighbours, but bent down over his horse's neck.

"Finally. I was wondering when the first one of you would show up." The Commander's voice was deep and raspy, due to years of yelling orders across a battlefield.

Athos withstood the Commander's powerful look. "I suspect the orders have changed?" he simply asked, choosing to ignore the prior comment.

Décart straightened up again, his eyes roaming over the regiment.

"Shooting on sight would've been a good idea if there had been only a dozen ships or less," he stated slowly. "But with this number of ships, it would only be a waste of bullets."

Athos didn't show any reaction, but he grunted. "I agree, Sir."

"So, how would you think Buckingham approaches? Do you think he'd sacrifice a number of his own men just so he can come ashore and besiege the island?"

The musketeer raised a questioning eyebrow. "What makes you think a man like me knows about the strategic mind of the Duke of Buckingham?"

Décart chuckled. "Don't take me for a fool, Athos. You were with the King when he met with Buckingham and must have formed some opinion of the man." He made a dramatic pause as if that answered the unspoken questions.

Athos sighed, but every muscle in his body was tense. "I was present when the King and Buckingham met one day. If you ask me, the Duke thinks he is a strategic genius and tends to feel superior to his opponent. He probably underestimates you. And since he has us outnumbered, I'm quite confident he plans to send one boat after the other and shoot us off this beach if he has to."

Décart again exchanged meaningful looks with his officers but then, he smiled grimly.

"Very well. Tell your men to hold their fire. We won't shoot at their boats; it has no use to us to waste so many bullets. The weather is on our side for this." As if to underline the statement, the harsh wind blew the Commander's hat off. "But as soon as the English put a foot on this beach, I want to open fire. We will make sure they won't reach the dunes. And if they do, the swordsmen will deal with them." He stared at Athos, as if he could read the man's doubt from his face. "Go back to your men, soldier," Décart said with a strict voice. "You have your orders."

Athos pressed his lips together and took a bow. "Sir."

With that, he turned on his heel and headed back towards the company of the musketeers. They had horses and carts with supplies hidden a short distance away, in case they needed to flee. Athos sincerely hoped it wouldn't come to that. Not that he was particularly excited about shooting every Englishman that dared to put a foot on the island, but he wasn't stupid. He knew that it was going to be kill or be killed tonight

He ducked his head again once he reached the musketeer company and crawled towards his friends, who were both looking at the ships, each of them ready to fire.

"What did Décart say?" Aramis asked once he sensed Athos' presence. He didn't even bother to look up.

"It appears we can just shoot at will once the enemy has landed and hope it doesn't end up in chaos," Athos commented dryly, his eyes still locked on the ships coming closer. In the distance they could see the first men climbing down from the ships into the landing boats, their torches being the only light in the total darkness.

"If we all just shoot on sight, it's going to be a complete waste, absolutely insufficient," Porthos rightfully pointed out. "At least a third of our men can't hit a target at this distance."

Athos furrowed his brow and turned his head to look at Porthos. "What do you suggest?"

"We build teams," Porthos explained with a low voice. "Three people. Two of them shoot, the third continues to reload the weapons. Each of us has at least one, if not two muskets with him. Contrary to the other companies."

Athos bit his lip, but nodded slowly. "It might work," he admitted. "We have the advantage of being better equipped, and better armed. I'll go tell the swordsmen; their job will be to reload the weapons while the other two shoot." He hesitated for a short moment. "Good thinking, Porthos."

Porthos just grunted and pulled out his own long-distance weapon from his belt.

"They're descending onto the boats, Athos," Aramis now pointed out. He already had a musket aimed at the beach. "They'll land on the beach in less than five minutes."

Athos nodded. "As soon as some of them escape the waves and make it on to the beach, you fire, understood?"

Aramis grimaced and shook his head.

"Two hundred feet. It makes no sense to shoot earlier. Tell the others to wait for my signal."

"You want me to tell everyone to hold their fire until you say so, while the other regiments riddle the beach with bullets?" Athos repeated dubiously.

"You should really have more faith in me, mon ami," Aramis commented, sounding slightly insulted, but Athos only growled.

"Do me a favour, and don't get us all killed." With that, he rose from his position, and snuck over to another troop of musketeer infantry, those who couldn't handle a musket.

They were at least ten men, wearing the uniforms of common soldiers but their weapons belts with the attached fleur-de-lis marked them as musketeers. They were all exchanging words quietly, and they looked up once they heard Athos approach.

"Athos, this is madness!" a musketeer called Mathis said. He was still quite young, his face still that of a boy, but he was popular amongst the men. Athos knew he spoke for the others. "There are so many of them. They sent their whole naval fleet against us few. What do you suspect are our chances?"

"We have the high ground here," Athos pointed out coolly. "Numbers don't matter as long as you don't decide to stand around being useless." It was meant facetiously, but the comment sounded sharper than he had intended.

Mathis wasn't impressed. "Then tell us what to do," he demanded.

Athos sighed, but nodded. "Each one of you, you'll assist the marksmen, reload their weapons so they can shoot faster. You wait until Aramis gives the command." He waited a short moment, but nobody felt the need to object.

"Mathis, you come and assist me and Porthos. Arthur, you support Aramis and Eric." The two musketeers just nodded briefly and crouched to their positions. Athos continued to organize the troops and once he was done, he lay down next to Porthos, his musket ready to fire.

He reached for his bag and handed his ammunition over to Mathis, who was already preparing one of the muskets.

"You ready, Athos?" Porthos queried from the side and shot him a quick side-glance. Athos just nodded, his eyes narrowed as he watched the movement on the beach.

His whole body was tense, and he could feel the nervous atmosphere that hung over the musketeers like fog, oppressive and intimidating. A raw voice cut through the dead of the night, and in what felt like one motion, the French soldiers opened fire. The fires lit up the darkness, and the thundering of the weapons being used drowned out the screams of the men being hit.

At least two musketeers used their weapons as well, eliciting an angry hiss from Aramis.

"Not yet!"

Veils of smoke started to form over the dunes, and the English brought more and more boats ashore. The wind blew harshly, and the sheer force of the water knocked some boats over before they reached the shore. The screams of the drowning men could probably be heard for miles, some of them were shot on the spot by Méchant's men, who were a lot closer to the beach than the musketeers.

"But they're already shooting!" Arthur yelled over the noise.

Aramis rolled his eyes and raised his hand.

"Hold your fire..." he commanded, and Athos and Porthos did as they were told without questioning it. Aramis was by far the best marksman among them, and he had served in many battles.

"Wait...," Aramis voice echoed through the rows of musketeers.

They heard cannons from the ships, their balls ripping apart the dunes, dirt and grass flying through the air, raining upon their heads. It was quickly followed by the agonized screams of men and the stunned ringing of the impact as the earth was trembling.

"Aramis!" Athos called tensely, his finger twitching towards the trigger as his concern grew the closer the enemy came.

The screams of the men reached his ears, the yelling of the officers, the deafening gunshots. He heard the blood rushing in his ears, and he could hear Porthos' heavy breathing to his right. The English came closer, knelt down in rows and fired their weapons.

For a moment, everybody held their breath, and Athos could've sworn that for a split second, everything was mute. And then, one single word pierced through the silence and reached Athos' ears.

"Fire!"

* * *

_*A reference to my story To New Shores, where they meet and bond during the recovery of Ré island.  
Many thanks for the positive reception of the Prologue, also to those I couldn't respond to personally._


	3. Kriegsglück

**III. Kriegsglück**

_"Fire!"_

On Aramis' command, the weapons of the musketeers thundered through the night. The first row of enemies tumbled to the ground as the bullets found their target. There was a short break, and Athos handed his weapon to Mathis at his back, and received a fully reloaded one in exchange.

Another salvo hissed through the air to find multiple targets. Athos had to admit, Aramis had been right. Half of the shots continued to miss their target, so there had been no point in trying to shoot at the ships earlier.

"Athos!" Porthos' voice cut through the noise of wind and battle and he elbowed him hard.

Athos wanted to protest, but instead, he followed Porthos' alerted gaze and saw Commander Decart's battalions marching towards the soldiers that had just landed on the beach.

"What is he doing?" Porthos shouted and fired his weapon again.

"Leading his men into battle," Athos replied, but his words were lost under the sound of another musket being fired.

"This is madness!"

"Contrary to us, he wasted all of his bullets on a distance nobody can hit," Athos growled.

Porthos was watching helplessly as the troops of the Commander clashed with the forces of Buckingham. Athos fired another shot, his eyes narrowed as he tried to make out what was happening on the beach.

He could see the fire of the muskets lighting up the night, but the scene was obscured by the thick fog that lay over them like a curtain. He could see the silhouettes of the English, some of them twisting and turning on the ground, others kneeling in the sand – with their own weapons aiming at the dunes.

Athos' eyes widened and he turned his head to the right.

"Get down!" he yelled with all the strength and authority he could muster. His warning came just in time, and he managed to crawl backwards just as the English muskets started firing back.

To his right, he could hear Porthos mumbling something incomprehensible, and he felt a weird twist in his guts as he heard the muffled cries of at least two musketeers who had been hit. He couldn't make out who, but he could hear other voices, Arthur's amongst them, who called to Athos.

"It's alright, nothing serious!"

"It's just a scratch!" another voice hissed somewhere among the rows of the musketeers.

Athos was startled when he noticed movement to his left, and he immediately aimed his pistol at the person who crouched down in the grass next to him.

Aramis just raised a questioning eyebrow and scanned the pistol with a skeptic look.

"Wrong direction, my friend."

Before Athos had the chance to reply or to just sigh in exasperation, Aramis continued, his face a mask of concern.

"Athos, we have to draw swords. There's no use in trying to keep the distance."

Athos grunted and got into a sitting position. "No, that's right. We might hit our own men." He peeked over the hill, and all he was able to make out was a muddling mass of men down on the beach. "Suggestions?"

He didn't get a response and turned his head back to Aramis, only to see his comrade's eyes wide open with alarm.

"I don't think you want to hear them!" the marksman yelled and pointed at something behind Athos. Both Aramis and Athos jumped to their feet, and the determined roar of Porthos assured them he too was on high alert. English soldiers had approached, and were charging towards them with their rapiers held high above their heads.

Athos hesitated for a split second. Was this the part where he, a common musketeer, had to give orders? Orders that would decide the fate of the musketeers?

Before he had a chance to waste further thoughts about it, the musketeers drew their rapiers in one single motion, awaiting their enemy shoulder to shoulder. Athos, Aramis and Porthos quickly took their places in the formation, and Athos realized that the musketeers did not need any orders. They were disciplined, and they knew what they had to do.

The English charged towards them, their swords ready to strike. Athos and his comrades wordlessly leveled their guns at the attacking enemies and they all fired their pistols at the same time, before they too drew their swords for the impact.

An intimidating war cry sounded in Athos' ear and he didn't have to look to see Porthos' angry and threatening face. He focused on the man running up to him - a short man, with a brown moustache and red, angry eyes – and prepared for the strike.

The sword clashed against Athos' weapon with more force than he had anticipated, but it was nothing he couldn't handle. He was trained to keep his enemies at a distance, and defeat them at the end of his sword.

He didn't fight as physically as Porthos, nor did he fight as energetically as Aramis, but he fought with efficiency, and with something Aramis liked to teasingly call 'unnecessary elegance'.

His opponent sent a series of hard blows against his blade, but Athos merely took a few steps back, parrying the strikes quickly and precisely. He could feel his boot sink into the slick sand, and for a split second, panic seized him as he was unable to move backwards.

The man in front of him noticed Athos' dire situation and started another forceful attack. The musketeer was able to see the blade flashing in the light of the moon, and while he struggled to get his foot free, he managed to lift his blade up and caught the enemy's sword only inches in front of his face.

The other man's face was red with anger and exhaustion, and he used all of his strength attempting to bury the blade in Athos' head. With a gasp of relief, Athos managed to free his foot, and he made a surprising step forward. He could feel his opponent's blade slice through his biceps, and he could hear the man's pained grunt of surprise when Athos pulled out his main-gauche and plunged it into the man's torso.

For a few moments, Athos was kept in what must have looked like a grotesque embrace, but then the man fell to his knees and tumbled backwards down the dunes.

Athos did not have time to catch his breath, nor did he have time to assess the situation. All he was doing was raising his sword in defense, and sending the attackers down the dunes from whence they had come. His sword was cutting through the rows of enemies, throwing itself into one duel after the other, and Athos felt like he was only subconsciously participating in the battle.

After a while, his ears started ringing due to the constant sound of steel clashing on steel. His eyes became teary due to the smoke and the wind, and he could feel warm blood running down his left arm, but the adrenaline kept him going.

Just when he had buried his main-gauche into the shoulder of another man, he was finally able to take a step back and evaluate the situation. The air was filled with gunshots and screams, the first thing Athos had to determine was how the musketeers were dealing. And how his brothers were doing.

It did not take long for him to find Arthur, the angry and strong fighter. He was a man in his thirties, about as tall as Athos, with a two long scars on his face and the strength of a boar. His face was a mask of hate, and it seemed like he was fighting driven by nothing but anger.

Not far away from him was Mathis, young and quick. He jumped around his enemies with an agility of which even Aramis would be jealous, but now and then, the recklessness of youth almost cost him his head.

Finally, Athos spotted Porthos. His friend seemed to use his pistol to stop assailing enemies and catch swinging blades, and the angry roars that escaped his throat were truly frightening. Nobody managed to come closer to the big musketeer than three feet.

Aramis was on Athos' other side, going against three men at once with his usual firm but effective method of throwing them into each other's blades, and if that wasn't enough, he almost looked bored doing so. It looked effortless, which made it even more terrifying.

"Musketeers!" The words barely reached through all the noise that surrounded him, but Athos managed to divert his gaze from his brothers and his eyes fell on Captain Méchant on top of a small, white horse, wielding his sword wildly to get Athos' attention.

Athos ducked just in time to avoid getting shot in the head and he hurried over towards the Captain, coming to a slithering halt in front of the man's horse.

"What?" he yelled over the noise as he automatically continued to reload his weapons.

Méchant bent down, so Athos could hear him better.

"We retreat. There's no point in holding the beach. The Commander and his troops will barricade themselves in the citadel, we will sit this out!"

Athos heard Porthos scream something behind him and he couldn't help but turn around. Another group of men had made it past the musket lines and up the dunes, and they were surrounding the musketeers. Porthos was wielding his sword with pure anger and determination, while Aramis dove underneath his enemy's sword and finished him off with his pistol.

Athos didn't hesitate when he saw another man running up to Porthos, ready to impale the tall musketeer with his dagger. In one swift motion, Athos took his aim and fired his pistol. The attacker collapsed to the ground a split second before he would have reached Porthos, and the musketeer didn't even have time to give Athos a grateful nod. They were mercilessly outnumbered.

"What about the musketeers?" Athos now yelled at Méchant, his face turned in the opposite direction, as he was trying to stay aware of their situation. "Where do we retreat to? Fort de la Prée?"

"No!" Méchant's voice reached his ears. "You have orders to head north-west, there's an abandoned wooden fort. It is said to be in good condition. Décart will send you further orders soon. Take your men, take your supply cart and get the hell out of here!"

With that, Méchant violently tore on the reins. His horse neighed in protest and reared up, before he galloped back to his own men.

"Athos!" The warning almost got lost under the noise of the battle, but he captured Aramis' words just in time. Instinctively, he ducked his head and felt the hiss of air as the sword missed its target. He whirled around to face his opponent, only to see the man on his knees, his uniform coated in blood from the blade sticking out of his chest.

With a disgusting sound, the blade was removed and the man fell forward, revealing Aramis. The marksman's eyes were wildly roaming over the open area, and he was bleeding from a nasty cut on his temple. Despite everything, Athos was glad he could count on Porthos and Aramis to watch his back in times like these.

Athos just nodded a thanks before he snatched Aramis' pistol from his friend's belt and fired it into the air.

"Retreat!" he yelled with a raspy voice, accompanied by a raw scratching in his throat due to the smoke and all the shouting. "Musketeers, retreat!"

All around him, heads turned towards him. Some musketeers seemed relieved; others stared at Athos in disbelief. Slowly but surely, the battlefront began to disengage. There were other orders in another language yelled across the beach, and casting a quick side-glance to the beach, Athos noticed that Commander Décart's troops had started running away from the beach, and into the safe cover of the trees. They headed north-east, towards Saint-Martin.

The English troops too started to fall back, and build a formation on the beach, in front of a man who had just descended from one of the boats, with a pale cloak and an armor Athos would recognize everywhere.

_The Duke of Buckingham._

Athos gritted his teeth, but he concentrated on his task.

"Get the damn cart," he yelled toward the location he believed Porthos to be. He received no answer, but the noises assured him that somebody was doing as he was told. Athos' senses told him to run, to search for cover and to bring as much distance between himself and the beach as possible.

He had to lead the way, he had to fulfill his task and keep those men together. But his eyes were locked onto the confusion that was the beach. In a way, it looked like a grotesque painting. The sand was torn apart by still smoking cannon balls, and colored red and black. The remains of the boats that had shattered in the bitter storm were slowly washed ashore, and bodies, more than he could count, were floating in the shallow waters. Both, English soldiers and French.

A few soldiers on the beach were still engaged in combat. Athos wasn't sure whether they had heard the orders or if they just did not care about them. He could do nothing but watch as one man after the other fell victim to an English sword.

Buckingham was still yelling orders, and the English muskets still thundered through the night.

"Athos!" A voice reached through his muffled ears and when he jerked his head to the side, his eyes met Aramis'.

"Athos, come!" his friend said and cast one last worried glance towards the beach. "We need to go."

He could feel Aramis dragging him with him for a few steps, and after he regained control, his legs started cooperating again and he ran, his mind fully concentrated on the musketeers, the men he had a responsibility for.

He couldn't allow himself to be distracted. His feet carried him away from the beach and into the safe cover of the trees. It didn't take long until he and Aramis reached the cart with supplies, Porthos was sitting on the coach box, staring at Athos in anticipation.

"There you are!" he growled, but Athos only granted him a short nod. He put a foot on the wheel and lifted himself up to check the content of the cart. There were boxes with food, clothes and other essentials stacked so high it almost looked unstable.

Athos' eyes wandered upwards and he narrowed his eyes when he caught a flash of silver in the distance by the dunes.

"We got everything, Athos," Porthos assured him confidently. "Let's move."

Athos' eyes were still locked on the dunes, and they widened as soon as he saw the men and the banner bearer emerge from behind the dunes, their weapons ready to fire. One man was leading them, he was wearing a dark armor and a golden weapon belt. Even from a distance Athos recognized him as one of Buckingham's commanders.

"Look out!" Athos' warning came just in time and Porthos instinctively ducked his head. The bullet missed his head only by inches.

"Let's go!" Aramis said; his eyes locked on the Commander of the British troops.

"Move!" Athos yelled forcefully, and luckily the musketeer company was very disciplined. Athos knew that there were men among them, who doubted his provisional leadership, but right now, no one commented, and nobody dared to protest.

The chase continued for at least another mile. The musketeers ran through forest and open area, heading north with no real idea what they were running towards. Their pursuers continued to shoot at them, making it clear that they didn't intend to let them get away.

"We could make a stand, and face this commander and his men. In open battle, we have a chance," Arthur yelled through the noisy wind.

"Are you insane?" Mathis countered, breathing heavily. "There's no cover for us here."

"These men are not letting us get away!" Porthos roared angrily as he steered the cart around a big tree.

"We just gotta keep running!" Aramis' voice echoed in Athos' ears, even though he had no idea where the musketeer was in the crowd. "They'll tire eventually."

The bullets riddled the ground behind them, but the English troops couldn't come close enough to do any serious harm. Musketeers were fast.

However, they were forced to run over a hill, and the sudden cry of pain that tore through the air forced Athos to an abrupt stop. He whirled around and saw one of the musketeers on the ground, his hands wrapped around a hole in his leg.

Without thinking twice, Athos ran towards him, fully aware he was exposing himself to a rain of bullets. He heard someone shouting something and he looked up to see that Aramis had had the same idea.

"I've got him, go on!" Athos shouted and pulled the wounded musketeer's arm over his shoulders, dragging him into the shelter of the cart, and Aramis hesitantly did as he was told. Athos could hear the bullets whiz past his ears, and he knew he was incredibly lucky that none of them actually hit him.

And suddenly, the shooting lessened and eventually stopped.

"They're falling back!" Mathis yelled in Athos' direction.

"About time they gave up," Porthos confirmed from his place on the cart.

Athos turned his head, the wind whistling in his ears, and he indeed saw the men turn around and head back to the beach, though not without shooting another salvo of bullets in their direction.

"No stopping until we're at the camp!" Athos ordered and no one dared to argue with him. The more distance there was between them and Buckingham's troops, the better. Nobody would deny that.

And so they continued running. Athos wasn't entirely sure they were going in the right direction, but Porthos seemed to be certain, and he trusted his friend. He was running next to Aramis, who looked exhausted to say the least, but he did not show any signs of stopping anytime soon.

About ten minutes later, their salvation finally revealed itself in form of big, wooden fences that appeared in front of them behind some rocks. The gate was open, and the musketeers stormed through it and gathered in the camp. Porthos brought the horse to an abrupt halt, and Athos carefully lowered the man he was carrying to the ground.

"What on earth was that?" Aramis panted once he firmly closed the fragile gate behind their backs. The musketeers were spreading out in the camp, looking for a place to rest for a while. Athos couldn't hold it against them, his own legs were shaking with exhaustion.

He was joined by Aramis, Porthos and Arthur, and they all had a half serious, half shocked expression written all over their faces.

"A very persistent Englishman, I'd say," Athos brought out between clenched teeth, his lungs still taking in as much of the fresh air as they could in an attempt to calm down.

"I have no idea who that was," Porthos said in a worried voice. "But he had every intention of stopping our retreat with violence, I was able to see it in his eyes, when I battled him at the beach. Quite determined to kill us all if necessary."

"Question is why he didn't stay on the beach in the first place, like all the rest of Buckingham's troops?" Aramis said thoughtfully.

Porthos shrugged. "Seems like he wanted to find out why we're not going with the Commander. Or he just likes killing musketeers." The bitterness in his voice was evident.

"Doesn't matter, I know his flag," Arthur pointed out. "That's one of the English Generals that fought at La Rochelle. If it's truly him who's supporting Buckingham's siege…" Arthur went silent, and steered his gaze towards the ground.

Aramis stepped forward, placing one hand on his weapon belt. He looked at Athos, ready to deliver an explanation. "They call him the butcher of La Rochelle," he explained carefully. "The stories that are being told about him…"

"…are just stories," Athos cut in sharply. "I'm not getting panicked by a myth"

Aramis raised his hands in defense. "All I'm saying is that we shouldn't underestimate him."

Porthos snorted. "I'm never going to underestimate a man who wants to kill me."

Aramis scowled, his arms crossed indecisively in front of his chest. "Sometimes, I feel like it's up to luck to decide who survives this war and who doesn't."

"It's in our hands," Athos replied bluntly. "Nobody but us decides about our fate."

Aramis looked at Athos with a strange expression in his eyes, somewhat melancholic, and somehow weary. He said nothing, but he lowered his gaze and stared at his boots.

"We need to build up this camp, and we need to do it quickly," Athos continued matter-of-factly, returning to his usual impassive tone of voice. "Buckingham will need at least a day to fully secure his position on the beach. God knows what he will do then."

Aramis nodded. "I'll go see after the others," he explained. "And see who's able to work on it." With that, he left, and Athos briefly closed his eyes and took a deep breath in order to ease his nerves. The adrenaline was still flowing through his veins.

Porthos exchanged a quick look with him, and the unspoken truth hung in the air between them.

A truth Athos could see, but was powerless against. They had been sent here as a diversion, to confuse the enemy, a sacrifice to facilitate the escape of the main body of the army.

Because in the end, this was not a fortress that could resist a siege for long. They had a target on their backs and Athos wondered how long it would be until they paid the price.

* * *

_Note: The title 'Kriegsglück' literally translates to luck of war. It's a reference to a poem by Goethe. And just in case anyone was wondering: The story will be written from Athos', Porthos' and Aramis' POV. Thank you for the comments!_


	4. Into the Wild

**IV. Into the Wild**

The sun was beginning to rise and bathed the whole camp in a warm, golden light. It was bright, too bright for Athos' taste, but at least the sun now provided them the light they needed to assess their whole situation better.

And it wasn't a good one. The wooden stakes that formed the outer wall of the fortress still carried the gunshot holes from 1625, and they were now rotten and looked a little unstable. There was a giant hole in the wall where it faced towards the ocean, and Athos made a mental note that that needed to be fixed as soon as possible.

The other big worry was the condition of the gate. By the looks of it, Buckingham wouldn't even have to make any efforts in order to storm the fortress. What once used to be a barricade was now barely more than a few wooden planks, and even with the gate closed, Athos could see through the multiple cracks in the wood.

He sighed and ran a hand over his face. The musketeers, under the command and organization of Porthos, had spent the rest of the night building up the tents and establishing some sort of system to their shelter.

There was now a medic tent, as well as a tent Porthos referred to as 'the commander's tent'. Athos had silently groaned about the title, since he really didn't see himself or his two friends as the commander here, but the tent contained the maps and the letters they needed to come up with a strategy. They had split the supplies over three tents in total, and it had been Porthos idea, which Athos had to admit was quite good thinking.

Porthos had argued that should Buckingham attack the fortress and send someone to destroy their supplies, they would probably set them on fire. It would be better if they all weren't in one spot. There were some other tents as well, but most of the about fifty musketeers chose to sleep outside. About twenty of them, including Athos, Porthos and Aramis, were patrolling the fortress, and guarding the others while they got some well-deserved sleep.

Athos was currently residing next to the medic's tent, polishing and cleaning his pistol, and barely noticing how the exhaustion threatened to overcome him every two minutes. He had almost fallen asleep over his weapon when the strong and loud footsteps of Porthos shook him awake within seconds and had him on high alert.

"Relax, it's just me," Porthos grunted and came to a stop in front of Athos, casting a quick glance at the clean pistol he was now polishing needlessly.

Athos said nothing, waiting in anticipation to see if Porthos had something important to tell him, but after a few moments of silence he realized he wouldn't get answers if he didn't ask the questions.

"What are your thoughts about this?" Athos asked as casually as possible.

Porthos shrugged. "Nothing you can't see yourself. This camp looks bad, but if we work hard enough, we could make a decent shelter within two days."

Athos couldn't help but be surprised by Porthos' statement. He had expected a dark assessment, but he once again came to the conclusion that there was a lot more about Porthos than he had gotten to know over the past two years. Despite their rough situation, the musketeer didn't waste any time and chose to make plans for their survival instead of bemoaning their plight.

Porthos was exhausted too, but Athos could see that the musketeer chose not to show any of it. He looked energetic and strong, with an expression ready to take on the entire world if necessary.

That, for sure, couldn't be said about Aramis. The marksman had appeared out of nowhere, with two bags of medical supplies over his shoulders, and his expression was a mixture of sour and annoyed. He had caught Athos' and Porthos' voices and now strode towards them.

Porthos raised an eyebrow when he saw Aramis' face.

"What's the matter with you?" he asked out of curiosity, and folded his arms in front of his chest.

Aramis hesitated, but he just sighed. "Nothing. Nothing of importance, at least."

Athos steered his gaze towards the weapon in his hands again. "Feel free to share."

He could almost hear Aramis debating with himself whether he should hold back or let his emotions run freely. Athos looked up again and saw his assumptions confirmed when Aramis threw the bags to the ground, running a hand through his hair nervously.

"Well, this is the _third_ time I'm getting shot at on this damn island!" Aramis complained with a pained expression. "I feel like all memories connected to this place are about war and battlefields. I'll have a word with Tréville as soon as we get back." He made a short pause. "If we ever get off this cursed place."

Porthos just raised an eyebrow. "Where's your optimism?"

Aramis scowled. "Stuck with the others, in a fortress I'm not in. Because we have different orders."

"Honorable ones, some might say," Athos interjected coolly.

Aramis sighed, and raised his hands in defeat. "Don't get me wrong, I'll do whatever I can. We all will. But back on this beach – back in Saint-Blanceau? Did you see any honor there?"

Athos opened his mouth to answer, but he closed it again when he made the decision not to go into detail. He changed the subject.

"Méchant said this camp was said to be in good condition."

Aramis snorted sarcastically and Porthos threw a sinister look towards the wooden wall. "Well, the bastard lied to you."

Athos shrugged.

"Aramis, can you go get Mathis and Arthur and secure the gate?" Aramis stared at Athos for a second, but then he saluted facetiously with the hint of a grin on his face and disappeared between the other musketeers.

Athos sighed and decided to stand up, securing his pistol to his weapons belt. He nodded towards Porthos with his head.

"We should make a plan on how to reinforce this camp. I could use your ideas."

Porthos grinned darkly. "Sure."

For a moment, they said nothing, and walked side-by-side in silence towards the hole in the wall, until Porthos raised his voice.

"He's just nervous, you know?" he explained. "'Aramis, I mean. He'll need some time to get used to the reality of this plan."

Athos said nothing at first, and pretended to be sincerely interested in the holes in one of the wooden pillars.

"Aramis has fought on more battlefields for the King than we have. I suspect he's getting tired of this."

Porthos just snorted in disbelief. "Aramis? Getting tired of fighting? Nah. More like getting tired of being sent into massacres." He stopped, and let his eyes swerve over the men around them, which led to him lowering his voice. "…but you are aware that this is what the Commander's orders are, right? You don't really think he sent us here so we can pose a real threat to the English?"

Athos slowly lifted his gaze to look Porthos in the eyes, and a rebellious expression crossed his face. "Buckingham knows nothing about us. I'm not planning on being used as bait for the English."

Porthos still looked worried. "Well, after last night, I think Buckingham is the least of our concerns."

Athos diverted his gaze again and looked towards the ocean, calm and soothing. It showed nothing of the storm that had happened last night, and nothing of all the blood that had been shed. "You're referring to the English General."

"The Butcher of la Rochélle, yes," Porthos agreed. "It seems like he's the one currently on our trail."

"I refuse to call him that." Athos raised an eyebrow. "But he acts on Buckingham's orders. And Buckingham will need at least two or three days to secure the beach, which gives us enough time to build this fortress into something useful." He couldn't help but turn a bit bitter towards the end.

A mischievous spark lit up in Porthos' eyes. "We'll all work together to make that happen, that much I can assure you." He gently patted Athos' shoulder.

"So, the plans you mentioned…?"

* * *

For the rest of the day, each musketeer worked hard on getting wood and steel to build barricades and strengthen the fortress.

Athos had asked Gino, their official field medic, to tend to the cut on his arm. It hadn't bothered him much since they had left Saint-Blanceau, but after Aramis had reminded him of the various ways this wound could make Athos' life miserable, he had finally given in and Gino, a very straight-forward and pragmatic man, had cleaned the blood-leaking wound and bandaged it neatly, without making a comment to which Athos was silently grateful for.

Once the swordsman had left the medical tent, he had trained briefly with one of the cadets, just to make sure he wasn't limited in his combat skills. Raising his arm high over his head wasn't exactly pleasant, but it was possible and that was all Athos cared about.

He quickly returned to his duties at the camp. Ten musketeers had volunteered to patrol the area and report any suspicious movements, but luckily, they had nothing to report yet.

Athos had worked together with Dénis, their architect, to figure out the best way to fortify the fortress, and later on, he had helped to get some wood to reinforce the weak points in the walls. In the afternoon, he had decided to get a little bit of rest himself, but after three hours he had woken and gotten up to assess the situation.

Porthos had taken over Athos' work on the hole in the wall, and it almost looked like there had never been any damage. He threw Athos a grim, but confident grin as he passed by, gesturing to him that the swordsman's help was no longer needed here.

Next to the campfire, he spotted Aramis, together with the grim looking Arthur and a tired looking Mathis. Athos instinctively turned towards the gate, and he couldn't help but be a bit impressed. The rotten stakes forming the gates had been tied to thick, wooden beams, making the gate more resistant and stable without losing any of its mobility. There were two new locking mechanisms, simple ones, but very effective by the looks of them. The gate could be secured with three beams in total now, in case they needed a full barricade.

Athos dropped on an old tree trunk next to Aramis and gratefully accepted the canteen of water his comrade offered him.

"That's good work," he simply said and gestured towards the gate.

Aramis grimaced, but he looked more or less content. "It should hold. It's the best we could do with the resources we have."

Mathis took a sip from a cup he was holding and threw Athos a childish grin. "The locks were Aramis' idea. I would've never come up with that construction."

Athos wasn't sure whether Aramis knew how admiring the boy's words sounded. He raised a questioning eyebrow in Aramis' direction, but the marksman just leaned back and answered Athos' unspoken question.

"I'm a man of many talents. Though I have to admit, stuff like that…," and he motioned towards the gate, "…was probably just lucky thinking."

"Oh, come on, give yourself some credit," Mathis insisted. "this gate probably wasn't that strong when it was built two years ago."

Aramis made a dismissive gesture, and he looked really uncomfortable. "Credit where credit is due. I had an idea, and you gentlemen," and he shot a glance over to Arthur, who was deep in thought, "...made it what it is now because I was too tired to continue."

Athos suppressed a sigh. "You haven't slept in a while. You should get some rest."

Aramis rolled his eyes. "Yes, _Sir_," he countered. "You can be really bossy, you know that? Doin' Tréville justice."

Athos grunted. "If you prefer to fall asleep while the rest of us go after Buckingham, go ahead, I won't stop you. But I don't want to hear any complaints later on."

Mathis, and even Arthur, laughed. Athos just raised the canteen to his lips and took a swallow.

Aramis had flashed him a quick grin and now turned his head from one side to another.

"Speaking of bossy, where's Porthos?"

Athos lifted his head to look for their friend, but he barely had to search.

"Bringin' you something we all deserve after the chaos of the last twenty hours," a deep voice sounded from behind, and Porthos, balancing five bowls filled with stew, emerged from one of the tents and dropped to the ground next to Aramis and Arthur.

"Oh, my friend, you sure know how to brighten up my day," Aramis said and took the bowl between his hands, gazing at it lovingly.

Porthos chuckled. "Save your blandishments for Celeste, will ya?"

Celeste, at least as far as Athos knew, was Aramis' current love conquest, a handmaiden in the service of a Parisian noble, and, for a change, she was not married. It had been about twelve weeks since they had last been in Paris, and for the first two weeks, Aramis did not shut up about her. Now, he rarely mentioned the woman.

A weird expression crossed Aramis' face, but he had it under control very quickly and smiled at Porthos, though Athos could see it was forced.

The swordsman also gratefully accepted the bowl Porthos handed him, and for a while, they sat side by side, eating in silence. After a while, Porthos and Aramis started telling the story of their last mission on Ré Island, the one mission where Athos had known something in his life had changed, because suddenly, he had been able to trust someone again.

Mathis was listening attentively to Aramis' dramatic tales and Porthos' slightly inappropriate jokes, while Arthur was acting uninterested, but Athos could see in his face that he was soaking up every detail of the mission.

Athos knew Aramis and Porthos were just trying to ease the tension that was undoubtedly hanging in the air, but he couldn't help but recall the truth of their last expedition on this island. It was a vivid memory, and a cruel one. Athos remembered nothing but blood and violence, and true fear and vulnerability while being exposed to the gunfire. And he knew that Porthos and Aramis, the two men he had grown to call his friends, felt the same way.

But as they were sitting here together now, near a little campfire and telling tales of a past victory, Athos knew that Aramis' and Porthos' intention was to alleviate the fear everyone here was feeling. To oppose it, to numb it. They were all musketeers, and that connected them. To his own surprise, Athos caught himself enjoying this tale, as inaccurately as it was being told. It felt like a gathering of friends, chatting as if they were just in one of Paris' old, filthy taverns.

And, most importantly to Athos, they were all equal. Equal in rank, and equally terrified of what was to come, even though nobody would admit it.

* * *

"Porthos, Aramis, Arthur, Mathis and Frederic," Athos' call rang through the entire camp early the next morning. The sun hadn't even begun to rise yet.

Slowly but surely, the named men appeared from all directions. He could see Porthos and Aramis coming out of the medical tent. Both looked tired, but they greeted Athos with an almost overwhelmingly friendly smile. Athos merely raised an eyebrow.

"What's going on with you two?" he asked dryly, and his eyes wandered towards the tent from which they had just emerged.

Aramis grinned. "We have set up everything in the medical tent now. We organized all the supplies, and we even went to collect some useful herbs." He looked a little confused at the lack of reaction from Athos. "Long story short," he continued with a sigh, "we are prepared now."

Porthos grunted and folded his arms in front of his chest. "Yeah, now we can continue getting' shot at."

Aramis exhaled slowly and grimaced. "Lucky us."

"Good," Athos answered to no one in particular and acknowledged the presence of Arthur, Mathis and Frederic, a young cadet, with a brief nod.

"What do you need?" Arthur asked.

"Come with me," Athos merely responded and marched towards the gate. When he passed the musketeer standing closest to the gate, he leaned over.

"Théo, look after the camp. We will be back soon."

The musketeer frowned. "Where are you goin'?"

"Scouting, securing the area. We need to find out where the English are, and how likely they know where we are," Athos informed him smoothly.

Théo shifted nervously from one foot to the other, his eyes scanning the men standing in front of him. "Don't you think you should take more men with you?" he asked, clearly uncomfortable asking, since technically, Athos, Porthos and Aramis had been given the command for now.

Athos on the other hand just shrugged and answered calmly: "The fewer we are, the less likely we'll be spotted. I'll send for reinforcements if necessary."

Théo bit his lip, but he nodded and turned to organize more groups to work on the camp.

Porthos opened the gate and headed out first, Athos, Aramis, Arthur, Mathis and Frederic on his heels. They put some distance between themselves and the camp, and eventually came to a stop behind a tall rock near the cliff.

"So, west of the camp is nothing to be secured. Only cliffs and water, impossible for Buckingham to approach silently," Porthos asserted.

Athos ran a hand through his hair. "We merely have a problem should he decide to send his ships over to this side."

Arthur's sharp eyes were fixed on the said spot, and he shook his head. "A problem, indeed, but not a grave one. The waters here are not deep enough for the ships to come close enough to use their cannons."

"Which means we're safe from their cannons, but they can still send soldiers over the water," Athos pointed out sharply.

Arthur raised a placating hand. "True, but we shouldn't forget that we're not the main target. We're just a splinter group of the French troops, it's the Commander in the main fort they want to defeat."

Aramis chuckled, sounding almost scornful. "First and foremost, they want this island, and they'll want to kill every French soldier they encounter. Don't ever underestimate them."

"I'm not," Arthur growled and seemingly took a deep breath to defend his statement even further, but Athos cut in first.

"We have to get to know the terrain. See whether there are shelters nearby, and where exactly the English troops are residing."

"Shouldn't we wait to act until the Commander sends his orders? Or until he sends a general to take the command?" Frederic, the cadet, raised his voice. "There's no one here authorized to give the orders."

Anger and impatience welled up in Athos, but Porthos spoke first.

"I do believe Captain Tréville was quite clear about this." His words left no room for objection.

"Frederic," Aramis started and approached the man slowly, putting a hand on his shoulder, a dangerous grin on his face. "If you want to put your fate into the hands of someone who isn't even here, feel free to do so. I understand that your lack of experience may result in doubts of the capability of the musketeer regiment."

"I'm not…," Frederic started to protest, but Aramis cut him off again.

"I suggest you return to camp if you don't feel comfortable with a musketeer's task. And if you believe we are…what did you call it?"

"Unauthorized," Arthur helped out grimly.

"Right," Aramis continued with a devilish smile, "If you believe us to be _unauthorized_ for this, you can report to your superior. Who, by the way, is nowhere to be seen yet."

Frederic desperately looked from Aramis to Athos, but it was Mathis, looking very impatient, who stepped forward and put a hand on Frederic's arm.

"Go," he said with faked kindness. "The camp needs your help. Maybe next time you can come with us."

Frederic apparently did not see how to get out of this, so he threw one very furious look towards Aramis and trudged back towards the camp.

"Was that really necessary?" Porthos asked. "You scared a potentially great musketeer away." He did not, however, sound too concerned.

"He was setting the wrong priorities," Aramis defended himself. He didn't look sorry at all. "I didn't mean to be harsh, but we cannot spare the time to argue about authorities."

"Aramis is right, doubt is the last thing we can use now" Athos growled and took a step forward. "I suggest someone goes scouting in this direction," he pointed south, "carefully, because Buckingham's troops are most likely somewhere there."

"I'll do it," Aramis volunteered, and neither Athos nor Porthos looked surprised. Out of all of them, Aramis seemed the most capable of scouting without being caught or noticed. And he was the most experienced for this kind of mission.

Athos exchanged a quick look with Porthos, and nodded. "Fine. Be careful."

Aramis saluted flamboyantly. "I always am." With that, he quickly took off to the south, one hand on the hilt of his pistol.

"I'm not even going to comment on that," Porthos said, and Mathis chuckled.

"Mathis, can you go in the direction of the main fort? We need to gather information on the status of the rest of the Commander's troops." This time, Athos was asking first. He did not like to send Mathis, a very young man, that far into unknown territory, but it was their best shot.

Mathis' eyes lit up, it was no secret that he felt the urge to prove his worth. "Yes, sir!"

Without wasting more time, he too went into the said direction, which left Athos, Porthos and Arthur with the south-east route, which soon led them to an area of tall grass and several trees. Athos was sure that they had passed through this same area, all those hours ago when they fled from the beach.

There was a large field with tall grass right in front of them, and Athos and Porthos silently agreed on splitting up to make sure there were no hidden threats. Arthur stayed close to the trees,

After half an hour of searching the area, Athos had to come to the conclusion that muddy ground, broken trees and the occasional rabbit were the most dangerous things in this area, and he returned to Arthur, who was already exchanging a few words with Porthos. Both of them looked up as soon as they heard Athos approach.

"We should check the forest," Arthur said nervously. "There's something about it."

Porthos shrugged. "Well, it won't hurt."

Together, they slowly approached the tall trees, and Porthos lifted his hand.

_Hear that?_ he mouthed towards Athos, and needlessly pointed towards his ears and brought a finger to his lips.

Now, Athos could hear it too. It was the sound of metal, hitting something over and over again. A hard, but slightly dull surface by the sounds of it.

Again, and again.

Athos immediately turned his head, just to make sure they were covered. He had a feeling that he always needed to watch his back on this island.

Suddenly, in the matter of a second, the source of the sound revealed itself and Athos' eyes widened with alarm.

"Get down!" he hissed sharply and pulled Porthos by his sleeve down into the tall grass.

"Wha…?" Porthos started to ask, but he froze as soon as he too spotted the distant figure. A man appeared between the trees, carrying an axe over his shoulder, his face red and sweaty.

He was mumbling something quietly, but loud enough for Athos' to hear some words.

"…not getting scared….whatever they like…not my war…".

_French_, Athos thought, but didn't relax one bit. Just because he was speaking their language didn't mean he was a friend.

The man turned away from them and started jogging, paying no attention to not being followed. He obviously didn't seem to care.

Athos gestured the other two to follow him, and as quietly as he could manage, he followed the man. It took a good amount of skill and a sharp hearing but they managed to stay hidden and follow the track of the man, but he just continued running towards where the trees formed a thick wall, about one and a half miles south of the wooden fortress the musketeers currently occupied.

The three musketeers hid behind some tree-trunks, before they lifted their heads to see where the man had unknowingly led them.

Porthos hissed angrily, and Arthur let out something that sounded like "Oh damn." Athos just stared at the sight.

"This is…," Athos started and took in a deep breath, choosing his next words carefully. "…not exactly unexpected."

"I cannot believe it," Porthos murmured, loosening the grip around his sword.

Athos barely moved, but a little sigh escaped his lips and he squeezed his eyes shut. Arthur to his other side spoke his feelings out aloud.

"As if we didn't have enough problems."

"Those are civilians," Athos pointed out needlessly. "French citizens. They need protection." It was a statement, not a question.

Porthos growled in confirmation, and a fourth voice diverted all of their attention from the village.

"If it lightens up your mood, that isn't the biggest problem." They turned their heads and spotted Aramis, approaching them quickly. He looked deadly serious, and continued to cast glances over his shoulder, as if scared he was being followed. "A group of Buckingham's troops is scouting the area, heavily armed. It won't be long until they reach the village."

* * *

_One of two calmer chapters which are much needed I believe. Thank you for reading, and thank you for the kind comments._


	5. The People that War forgot

**V. The People that War forgot**

"Where?" Athos questioned matter-of-factly, and leaned backwards on his elbows so he stayed out of any potential enemy's sight.

Aramis took a deep breath. "About a mile south of this village. At least ten horsemen."

"How many in total?" Athos dug deeper.

Aramis shook his head and indecisively scratched his beard. "Thirty, maybe forty. Too many, if that's what you're asking."

Athos pressed his lips into a thin line. "Anything else?"

The marksman nodded. "I was able to overhear a conversation. My English is very bad, but I think this General's real name is Lord Eadmund. If it's truly him, it is rumored he is quite close to Buckingham. The English losses were numerous in Saint-Blanceau, but they have been able to maintain the beach."

"As expected," Athos commented dryly.

"Sorry," Porthos interrupted brusquely, "but I don't see how this is of importance now. There are English troops marching towards us, and those French citizens will be caught in the crossfire!" He made a wide gesture towards the few houses.

Athos took a second to gather his thoughts. This was not a situation he was used to, and for which nothing he had experienced in the past two years had prepared him. Here he was, together with Aramis, Porthos and Arthur. Four musketeers, lying in the grass next to a village, while a small army of the enemy came closer with every breath. The survival instinct in Athos screamed at him to retreat back to the fortress, but as usual, Athos' duty prevailed.

He knew what duty required. And he knew what the others were waiting for.

"Alright, Arthur, you head back to camp. We need more men here."

Arthur nodded and shouldered his rifle. "I'll be back as soon as possible."

Athos turned towards the other two musketeers. "Porthos, Aramis…?"

He didn't even have to ask the question out loud, without another word, his friends had already figured out what to do and started approaching the village. Athos followed them closely, with one hand wrapped tightly around the butt of his pistol, ready to do whatever would be necessary should things get out of hand

Aramis walked in the front, as usual, since Porthos and Athos had learnt to have him talk to potential allies first. While Porthos and Athos had insisted that the reason for that was Aramis' unbeatable and slightly annoying talent for talking his way out of dire situations, Aramis had decided it was due to the grim-looking faces of Athos and Porthos. Porthos had protested wildly at the statement, but Athos had just shrugged it off. Aramis wasn't wrong after all.

The first one to spot them was a middle-aged woman, with slightly dirty, blonde hair, who was dragging a bucket filled with water out of her front door. At the sight of three heavily armed musketeers approaching the house, she dropped everything.

The bucket crashed to the ground and its contents spilled over the whole entrance area, which elicited an impressive number of curse words from the lady. Another voice could be heard from inside, and its source soon revealed itself when a man, probably the woman's husband, stumbled towards the entrance. The man glared at the musketeers only for a short moment. The next thing Athos knew was that there was a gun aimed at them.

"Who are you?" the man yelled, and suddenly, they had the attention of the whole village. Everyone nearby, who had ignored the musketeers so far, stopped whatever they were doing and turned their heads towards them.

Porthos raised his hands, showing he was unarmed. "Easy now."

"What do you want?" another voice asked and Athos turned his head to the left only to see another pistol aimed at his head. He still kept a firm grip on his own pistol.

Athos threw a look at Aramis, waiting for his friend to take over and diffuse the situation with a few well-chosen, soothing words.. He knew that Aramis liked to be the polite one, but he couldn't help but notice how Aramis' hand was also resting on the hilt of his sword.

"We, Mesdames and Messieurs, may well be your rescue squad." Aramis squinted his eyes and tilted his head, staring directly at the barrel aiming at his head. "Do yourself a favor and don't shoot your rescuers."

"We don't want trouble," the man in the doorway said mildly, not lowering his weapon an inch.

"Yeah, that makes two of us," Porthos commented. "Look, drop your weapons, and we'll explain."

Athos made a small step forward. "You're just wasting precious time at the moment," he commented in the farmer's direction.

Aramis sighed, and a polite, but slightly dangerous grin crossed his face. "Listen, Monsieur. First, you can go ahead and shoot three musketeers of the King, but I assure you, we can draw our weapons faster than you can pull the trigger. Second, if you believe us to be a threat to you, I'll gladly watch you react to the three dozen English soldiers who are on their way to your village." His expression changed, and he looked deadly serious now.

Athos decided it was time to step in, and he grew more impatient with each second that passed.

"In other words: You can accept the help of the King's musketeers, or you can be slaughtered by Buckingham's troops. Your choice."

The man in the doorway lowered his weapons instantly, and with a flick of his wrist, the other citizens around them followed his example. He hurried down the stairs and came to a halt in front of Aramis, who tilted his head as a greeting.

"You should've said you were musketeers right away." He offered Aramis a hand. "Lucien Valle. Pleasure."

Aramis looked a little surprised, but he took the hand and shook it. "Aramis." He then pointed towards where Porthos and Athos were standing. "My friends, Porthos and Athos," he introduced them.

Lucien bowed his head. "Who of you three is in charge?"

The question was left unanswered, and the three friends merely exchanged a few glances. Porthos grinned, Aramis chuckled, and even Athos' mouth formed something like a smile.

The woman next to Lucien shook her head in exasperation and leaned over to her husband. "Musketeers," she muttered. "Livin' up to the expectations. No discipline, no authority. So, who's in charge?"

Athos briefly considered a short and brutal lecture at the moment, but the look on Porthos' face spoke volumes. His face was like stone, and he had his arms crossed in front of his chest. To a stranger, he probably looked quite intimidating.

"You're standing in front of the men in charge," he growled. "And you can think about us whatever you like, but we're here to save you ungrateful souls from Buckingham's troops. You should come with us. It's an offer, not an order."

Athos walked up next to Porthos. "But I should point out that the choice is quite mandatory."

Lucien raised a placating hand. His eyes searched those of the other villagers – and they seemed to come to an agreement.

"I appreciate your offer, and your information. But we all agreed that Buckingham and his troops of misled Englishmen will not chase us off our lands."

"Honorable," Athos replied coolly, and he pulled out his pistol just in case. "But it gets you killed."

"We're just civilians," Lucien's wife spoke up, and Athos could hear the bitterness in her voice. "And our needs have been ignored before. Why should we accept help now? It's a bit late for that, don't you think?"

Athos seriously considered forcing these people to leave at gunpoint, but Aramis, apparently alerted by the look on Athos' face, intervened in time.

"With all due respect, Madame," he said in an urgent voice. "I do not speak for the Commander, but I believe you can say I speak for the King. Come with us, I cannot promise it will be luxury to live under our protection, but it's safer than staying here."

Lucien shook his head. "This is my land. Our land. I won't give it up without a fight."

Anger welled up in Athos, and he shook his head violently, snorting in disbelief.

"Aramis, if these fools want to get killed over some dust and ruins," he said, his voice tight with frustration, "I won't stop them."

Porthos to Athos' right grunted and shook his head. "We're not leavin' them behind."

Athos glared at him and then raised his pistol and pointed it at Lucien. "Alright. We don't have much time left thanks to you. You're coming with us. Now."

"You're not going to shoot me," Lucien dared to speak, but Athos didn't miss the tremor in his voice. "You're a musketeer."

Aramis, apparently torn between lecturing Athos and lecturing Lucien, helplessly stepped between the two of them. Athos merely took a step to the side, still aiming his pistol at Lucien.

"Last chance," he threatened, hoping nobody would realize he was bluffing and that of course he wasn't going to shoot the civilian, no matter how tempting it might be. But he remembered something his father used to say when Athos was younger. Sometimes being feared brings more results than being loved.

Athos did not care one bit about what the civilians thought of him. Maybe they would be scared of him, but if that was necessary to move them out of this village, it was worth it.

He watched how Lucien desperately bit his lip, thinking over and over again what to do next. Athos' eyes wandered towards Aramis, who was still frozen on his spot halfway between Athos' pistol and Lucien Valle. The marksman's eyes were narrowed skeptically, as if he was trying to figure out whether Athos meant what he said.

When Athos' eyes found Porthos on the other hand, he came to realize that this was a masquerade he couldn't pull off. By the looks of Porthos' face, he had seen straight through Athos' move, but chosen to say nothing so far, apparently hoping Athos' bluff might succeed.

Now he stepped forward and laid a placating hand on Athos' pistol, lowering it to the ground.

"One suggestion," he said slowly and turned back towards Lucien. "Let us help you barricade this village. Maybe the English will leave you alone, maybe not. Most likely not." Porthos scratched his beard and threw a glance at Aramis, who took over.

"If you don't want to come with us, fine, but we have orders to put you under our protection. It's the least we can do."

A moment of silence. Athos was still fighting to keep his impatience under control, and out of the corners of his vision, he could see Aramis nervously scanning the area with his sharp eyes. The time they had was running through their hands like sand, and the more seconds passed, the more Athos wanted to lift his gun again to force an answer.

Lucien finally nodded, and the other surrounding citizen made some agreeing noises. Except for the woman standing in the doorway.

"We don't need your protection, musketeers," she hissed angrily, and Athos finally had enough. He put his pistol away and gestured Aramis and Porthos to come with him. He walked up to the house and shoved the woman to the side as he entered the house. No further words were needed.

"Madame," Aramis apologized cheekily with a little lift of his hat as he followed Athos closely. The swordsman heard Porthos mumble something very impolite on his way into the house.

Athos was already beginning to gather all sorts of furniture, from loose wooden planks to small chairs and plates.

"Barricades," he grunted when he noticed Aramis' slightly puzzled face, and he used a cupboard to block the little window over the kitchen table.

Aramis nodded hesitantly, and grabbed Porthos, who was still standing in the doorway, by the arm, casting nervous glances towards Lucien and his wife.

"Porthos, you can't seriously think that Buckingham is just going to ignore them!" Aramis pointed out rightfully. "Ignore us!" He made a wide gesture and ended up pointing at the pauldron on his shoulder.

"No," Porthos justified straight away "'course not. But if we can't get them to move, maybe Buckingham can." He shot Athos a strict look. "It may be risky, but threatening to shoot them isn't an effective alternative, Athos."

Athos just shrugged, and with Porthos' help, he flipped the massive wooden table over to the side.

"I'll go outside, and calm the people." Aramis said. "Make it clear that there'll be no debate about hiding from Buckingham." He shook his head disbelievingly. "If being friendly doesn't work out, I may come back to you, Athos."

"At your service," Athos grunted grimly as he eyed the barricade on the window skeptically. It wasn't bulletproof, but it should hold out a little bit of gunfire. This was a foolish idea, and even though he was angry because these civilians wouldn't listen to reason, he tried to focus on his duty.

"Monsieur!" a female voice sounded from behind, and Athos turned around to meet a red-haired woman in her twenties, walking over the doorstep. Through the open door, Athos could see that Aramis, by the looks of it, was considering murdering someone in the nervous and loud crowd outside.

"Athos, is it?" she asked, and Athos' noticed her eyes nervously twitching towards Porthos, who was cursing colorfully as he adjusted the table.

"Yes," Athos responded calmly.

"Please!" she cried out, and noticed it had drawn attention of some other civilians. Athos put up a placating hand and joined her on the doorstep.

"Calm down, Madame. What is it?" He was uneasy and apprehensive, as if expecting the enemy's gunfire any second.

"I don't share this…," she lowered her voice, with unshed tears gathering in her eyes. "…this idiot's ideals. Get me out of here, get me and my children into safety. You are our only chance. There are others too that don't want to stay. We just want to get out of here, please, Monsieur!"

Athos knew he could ask many questions. Why Lucien was their spokesmen, and why nobody said anything earlier. But he was a soldier, and his mind was so focused on strategy at the moment it left no room for personal intervention. There were children in this village, and that was the only fact that mattered to him now. To hell with these people and their misguided intention to fight for their land. It was going to get them all killed.

He exchanged a look with Porthos, and though his friend looked grim, he just nodded at Athos as if agreeing to whatever Athos was up to now.

But he had no chance to formulate his plan, nor to execute it.

Athos heard a faint whizzing sound, and a yelled warning from Aramis forced him to take cover behind the open door, pushing the woman behind him.

One single gunshot, an angry scream, and then all hell broke loose.

* * *

_Note: I'll use multiple POV's (Athos, Porthos and Aramis) from now on. For reasons that become obvious soon enough. Some more action coming soon. Thank you for reading! Also thank you to Laureleaf and Uia for the reviews!_


	6. First Blood

**VI. First Blood**

Within moments, chaos erupted around them. The air was filled with screams and gunshots, and Porthos was outside barking orders at no one in particular.

Athos had pulled the woman down to the ground, one arm drawn over his head in a protective manner, the other one reaching for his belt, drawing his pistol. One bullet after another riddled the door Athos had been standing in front of only seconds ago, and the splintered wood was flying in all directions and raining down on them.

He looked down, only to see the woman's face absolutely terrified. Athos quickly scanned her, and himself, for injuries, but he couldn't find any.

"Stay inside," he ordered her brusquely, and raised his pistol in his right hand, peeking behind the shredded door.

"My children!" the woman screamed, and Athos looked towards her again. Tears were streaming down her face, and she helplessly scrambled backwards on all fours. "Please, my children!"

"Where are they?" Athos asked, as he blindly fired a bullet in the direction from where he believed the shots were coming. He immediately started to reload.

"My daughter is in the small house, over there!" She pointed towards a wooden building, about twenty paces away. "My son is working at the barn, two miles north."

"Your son should be safe for now. You stay here, don't move until I say so." He was interrupted by other civilians who came running through the shattered door-frame, yelling and cursing. Some of them were dragged by others, and Athos gently, but firmly shoved them behind his back.

"Don't move," he said once again, before he turned his head to look at the scenario outside.

There were two carts thrown over in the middle of the street, and he spotted Porthos leaning against one of them, his arms drawn protectively over a young girl, who was screaming in terror. Athos could see how Porthos tried to soothe her and shoot back at the English troops without scaring the girl too much. Only Porthos could look like a caring brother and a deadly soldier at the same time.

"Madame," Athos growled, and waved with his hand behind his back.

He could feel the woman approach, trembling terribly, and he held his arm out to keep her in the safe zone. He pointed towards Porthos.

"Is that your daughter?" he asked, and the surprised scream that escaped the woman's throat answered the question for him.

"Don't worry," Athos said with all the assurance he could muster. "My friend's got her. He'll get her out."

She nodded, but her eyes were still wide with horror and locked on the spot where the little girl was crying and screaming.

Athos stepped aside just as another bullet hit the wall next to him, and he spotted Aramis taking cover behind some old barrels, whose contents were spilling onto the ground. Lucien, the self-proclaimed spokesmen for the village, was running around, trying to avoid getting hit by the bullets. Athos could see at least three or four English soldiers running towards him, with their rapiers raised high in a charge of violent rage.

Athos barked a warning and an order, and without further hesitation, he, Aramis and Porthos simultaneously rose from their cover and fired their pistols. Two of the men crashed face-first to the ground, but the other two still ran towards Lucien. Athos did not know who of them had missed their shot, it wasn't important anyway.

"Merde," Athos could hear Aramis curse, and every fiber in his body was urging him to enter the battle with his sword, but at least two new gunshots right next to his head forced him back under cover. When he got the chance to risk a glance again, about ten seconds later, he just witnessed Aramis, who had broken cover, pulling his sword out of one of Lucien's assailants. The other one was knocked out.

"Who are they?" Lucien's voice rose over the tumult, and Aramis grabbed him at the last second and forced him behind the barrels as another rain of bullets came down.

"Buckingham's troops," Aramis snapped, and sent a questioning look towards Athos. The swordsman looked over to where Porthos was holding his position behind the cart, and he made a gesture towards Aramis, knowing his friend would understand without a word.

Athos took a deep breath and closed his eyes, his ears picking up every sound there was.

For about five seconds, all he heard were the gunshots fired by English muskets, but suddenly, there was a small break. Athos took the chance and stormed out of his cover, sliding over the ground towards Porthos and almost colliding with Aramis, who had Lucien on his heels. Aramis almost lost his balance and steadied himself on the cart.

"Next time," he panted, shooting Athos an amused glance and ignoring completely the complaining of Lucien to his right, "We should exchange signals to decide who'll go first."

"We'll work on that," Athos replied and prepared his pistol. He faced his friend again. "How many?"

Aramis shrugged. "No idea. They're shooting at us from behind the trees, but it won't be long until they decide it's a waste of bullets and try for the honor of taking out the King's musketeers with a sword."

"We have to get the civilians out," Athos stated matter-of-factly, moving to the side when he heard the wood behind his back shatter.

"We are only three, how the hell are we supposed to get the people out of here?" Porthos queried and flinched at another salvo of gunshots.

"It's three against forty," Athos said mildly, not sure what it meant for him or his friends.

Aramis grinned. "Sounds like fun." He hesitated when his gaze fell on Athos' and Porthos' unreadable faces. "Arthur is getting reinforcements," Aramis pointed out and hissed as one bullet missed his head only by inches. He threw his hair back and angrily reloaded his pistol. "We just need to hold on long enough."

Athos just grunted affirmatively.

"Porthos, get the child out of here, then come back and help us secure an escape route."

Porthos nodded, covering the girl's head with his giant hands. "What about you two?"

Aramis chuckled and grabbed Lucien's arm. "Where are the others?"

The man looked surprised that he was asked a question. He was shaking violently with fear, his eyes squeezed shut until the moment Aramis addressed him.

"I…what?"

"Where are your people?" Athos repeated impatiently, his voice dangerously low.

"Well, you left some of them in my house!" the man replied in a ridiculous attempt at bravado. "I believe the others tried to go to the forge."

Aramis lifted his head over the cart and risked a quick look into the village, before he crouched down again, his eyes wide open.

"Alright, bad news for us, the forge is at least twenty-five toises* _that_ way," and he used his head to point in the said direction, which was opposite of Lucien's house, "and…," he made a short pause and shoved his pistol back onto his belt before pulling out his rapier and his main-gauche, "bad news for them. They're coming, mes amis. Charging at us with swords."

Lucien made a weird sound and his eyes were rolling in panic. "How is that bad news for them?"

Porthos grinned darkly, and even Athos' mouth twitched a little.

"If that's the case," Athos concluded and rose to his feet, "Aramis, you'll go to the forge, and try to get the people there to safety. I'll secure a route between Lucien's house and Porthos. All clear?"

Aramis nodded and jumped to his feet. "See you two later," he commented as if he was just going out for a casual stroll, then he ran toward the forge. Athos still heard a few gunshots, but nothing he or the others couldn't handle.

"Don't die!" Athos shouted dryly, but he wasn't sure whether Aramis had been able to hear him.

"Alright, Athos, now!" Porthos yelled and Athos didn't need to be told twice. He turned around to face the charging enemy with a loaded pistol aimed straight at the first man he laid eyes on. He was still a few lengths away, but Athos didn't give him the chance to come any closer. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see how the people that had fled into Lucien's house were trying their best to block the entrance with anything they could find, but Athos quickly realized that the English soldiers were completely focused on the musketeers at the moment.

Which was exactly what they wanted. Athos took one deep breath and grasped his rapier even tighter.

* * *

Porthos could feel the warmth of the little girl in his arms against his chest – a constant reminder of what he was protecting, and what he had to do next. His own heartbeat was hammering against his armor, betraying his calm façade and telling the story of his own fear, of his own doubt.

He watched Aramis disappear behind one of the houses, and judging by the sound of metal clashing on metal, he had found Buckingham's troops. He could hear men and women scream, but Porthos just hoped that the civilians would escape safely.

To his right, he watched how Athos felled the first man with his pistol, before he ripped the rapier off his belt with elegance and threw himself between the English soldiers and the barricade a few civilians had built in the entrance of Lucien's house.

Everything in Porthos screamed at him to go to his brother's aid, but the weeping in his ear reminded him of what he was supposed to be doing, and swiftly, he moved into action.

He jumped to his feet, grabbing his pistol with one hand and holding the girl tightly with the other.

"I'll get ya out of here, don't worry," he tried to soothe her, but over the riot of the battle, he almost had to shout, and the result was contrary to his intentions. The girl shook even harder, and her tears coated Porthos shoulder. Without hesitation, he started running. The sound of boots hitting the ground assured him that he was being followed, just as he had expected.

He tightened his grip on his pistol and he sensed the second before one of the soldiers reached him. He dove underneath the blade he had felt coming and fired the pistol straight into the stranger's chest. The man stared at him with wide eyes, apparently assuming he had had the element of surprise on his side, before he crumbled to the ground. The girl in Porthos' arms was sobbing, and he had given up trying to calm her.

All that mattered now was bringing her to safety.

He heard a gunshot somewhere and he ducked, only to feel the bullet miss his head by a hair's breadth. With a cry of rage, he whirled around to face the source of the gunshot, and he lifted his pistol just in time to avoid getting stabbed in the face. The steel clashed against the barrel of his pistol, and Porthos could feel warm blood running down his hand. He had no free hand to draw his sword, so he decided not to waste any time trying.

Careful not to expose the girl to the enemy's sword, Porthos leapt to the right, using the moment of surprise to forcefully knock the pistol-butt against the soldier's temple. The man stumbled, but swung his sword in Porthos' direction.

The musketeer noticed how the man deliberately avoided attacking Porthos' left side, where he was holding the child, so he concluded that Buckingham's troops probably weren't the heartless bastards they had been told about after all.

Still, when another English soldier approached, Porthos panicked for a split second and considered letting his pistol go in order to grab his sword, but he didn't have enough time to follow through.

A heavy kick to his knees sent him to the ground, and the child's scream tore his ear apart. He rolled onto his side to protect her from any harm, and judging by the lack of attacks that followed from the enemy, he guessed that they didn't want to harm the girl either.

Porthos saw his chance, and he took it. With a forceful blow of his elbow, he disarmed the first soldier, grabbed him by the collar and threw him face first against the nearest tree trunk. A dull sound assured him that the attacker was out-of-action, and he whirled around to face the second opponent.

The man's face was dark red with anger after watching how brusquely his comrade had been dealt with, and he launched multiple attacks with his sword, so quickly that the musketeer had a hard time defending himself and the child. Two or three sword strikes hit his armor, but didn't manage to cut through.

Finally, he had enough. Porthos used his already injured hand with the pistol to stop another strike, dropped the weapon briefly and grasped the enemy's rapier tightly with his gloved hand. The expression on the much smaller man's face changed rapidly from anger to fear, and Porthos gritted his teeth when he tore the rapier out of the man's hands and used it to finish the duel between them, quick and precisely.

Porthos didn't waste another second and picked up the pistol again. The sounds of steel clashing on steel in the distance assured him that his friends were still engaged in several battles of their own. He ran north into the safe cover of the trees, not without having to defend himself against two other Englishmen. It was difficult with the girl in his arms, but he wouldn't risk letting her go off on her own. He had two or three close calls, but luckily, his skills hadn't abandoned him.

Just when he thought he could use a split second to breathe, the hissing sound of steel cutting through air announced another soldier's attack. Porthos instinctively leaned backwards, but the second blow followed so quickly he had nowhere to go. Before he had the chance to react, the sharp metal cut through his skin over his eye.

For a second, he was stunned, and almost dropped the child in his arms. The skin around his eye burned hot with pain, but the adrenaline in his veins burned even hotter. He didn't give the man a chance to celebrate his triumph. He forcefully kicked him against the chest and away from him, before he blindly dove underneath the blade he sensed coming and rammed his head against his enemy's skull.

The years he had spent brawling in Paris' taverns finally came in useful, and he knew that the headache he was going to have was worth it. The soldier blinked at Porthos a few times, completely stunned, and didn't even notice when the musketeer broke his leg with another kick. The man collapsed to the ground, and Porthos again didn't hesitate a second.

He strengthened his grip around the girl, finally dropped the pistol in his right hand and hurried north. In the distance, he heard voices, and he panicked at the thought of Buckingham's troops literally surrounding them.

He couldn't see much with warm, sticky blood running down his face. With his vision blurred, he was forced to a stop when multiple figures appeared in front of him. A tall figure stepped right in front of Porthos, who felt threatened by the stranger's posture.

He roared with anger, and in one fluid motion, he pulled out his sword, wielding it menacingly.

The unknown man in front of him took a step back, and motioned the others to do so as well. He didn't behave like a threat, but Porthos, devoted to his duty, wouldn't take the chance. He growled and kept the others at distance with his weapon.

"For the love of God, Porthos!" the man exclaimed. "Tell the difference between friend and foe, will ya?"

Porthos blinked the blood out of his eyes and squinted to recognize the stranger's face. He frowned.

"Arthur?"

* * *

As soon as he had run from cover, Aramis had regretted his impulsive decision. It was not that the reaction was unexpected – he had known there were muskets aimed at him, and he had known that there were soldiers running towards them with rapiers raised high. Still, he was outnumbered, and he had run blindly into an unknown number of enemies.

But it was the adrenaline that had kept him going, and with a good amount of luck, he wasn't hit as he crossed the distance towards the next house, which provided cover for him.

He threw a quick glance back, and saw Athos running towards Lucien's house, which Buckingham's troops were already besieging. There was no trace of Porthos yet, but Aramis had faith in his friends. They would do their duties. Now, he had to fulfill his.

He didn't get another warning and the fact that the sword being flung at him missed him was all due to his quick reflexes. Aramis blindly stabbed sideways with his parrying dagger and felt the blade slice through flesh and an agonized yell assured him he had found a target.

After straightening back up, Aramis briefly saw the face of the attacker right before he stabbed his rapier through his torso. He whirled around just in time to parry another blow from another English soldier, and behind the man's back, he could see that the civilians who had fled towards the forge were arming themselves with everything they were able to find.

The English forces were attacking aggressively, but their defensive moves were somewhat sloppy.

Aramis plunged his main-gauche into his attacker's shoulder and moved him aside.

"Out of my way," he hissed to no one in particular, and started running towards the crowd.

"Head over to Lucien's house!" he yelled towards where he believed the villagers to be, then threw himself between Buckingham's troops and the French citizens. He automatically fell into the movements he had practiced so often with his friends, and it was easier imagining that the tall, broad soldier who challenged him to a duel was Athos on the training ground, and that the giant swordsman who came running towards him with a cry of savage rage was Porthos after a long night in the tavern.

He tried to anticipate the moves that would come from them, and tried to adapt to them, but truth was, Porthos and Athos both were far superior fighters than the men attacking him. He was able to keep them at bay and control the duels easily.

He caught a blade being swung at him from up above with his dagger, and steered the Englishman's sword in the direction of another attacker, before he kicked him in the back and managed to take out two enemies at once.

The only problem Aramis could see at the moment was the number of enemies. The Musketeers were mercilessly out-numbered, and their priority was getting the people out of here. Right now, Aramis did not know how he would get them safely to Lucien's house, and to Athos, on his own.

That's when he sensed someone to his right stabbing one of Buckingham's soldiers in the back, and he recognized one of the civilians swinging an iron bar and covering Aramis' right side.

"I don't mean to sound ungrateful, but get the hell out of here!" Aramis yelled at him and saved him from being impaled by an enemy's sword.

"Let us help you!" the man insisted, and Aramis fought the urge to repeat Athos' way of handling things from earlier.

"I don't have the time or the energy to argue!" Aramis growled instead and threw his current enemy into another attacker who had sneaked up from behind. "Run. Now. I'll hold them off."

He was sure he heard a "Thank you!" from somewhere in the crowd, but he didn't bother to look, nor did he care. All that mattered for now was protecting the small group of civilians against the heavily armed, greater number of Buckingham's men.

The seconds he had wasted on yelling led to one attacker smashing the butt of a pistol against Aramis' chin, and he stumbled backwards, regaining balance just in time to block a deadly blow.

As a result, he had to take another hit against his knee, and he could feel the blade slice through the leather and his skin. He barely felt any pain, the anger flowing through his veins as well as the determination gave him the strength to smash his own head against his enemy, and use the unexpected shock it caused to his own advantage. Not even five seconds later, the duel was over.

Aramis took a deep breath and risked a quick glance over his shoulder. To his relief, there were only two civilians left who were trying to make their way through gunfire and pure chaos, and Aramis believed he heard noises from behind his back that could only belong to Athos.

He had no time to reassure himself. Years on the battlefield for the king had taught him that most battles lasted long, and mostly ended because one side ran out of strength or energy. He didn't plan to be on that side.

With the hope that Arthur would be coming with reinforcements soon, Aramis turned to face the next group of English soldiers that charged at him with swords drawn and faces red.

He managed to get rid of the first one quickly, a move with the sword Athos had taught him only a few weeks ago. Aramis made a mental note to thank his friend.

The two men that followed were harder to deal with. Both were very tall, and they were surprisingly agile for their statue. It took all of his reflexes and energy just to avoid getting beheaded, and he kicked one of them in the knee to put him out of action for a few moments.

The remaining man didn't seem to be bothered, but had a hard time parrying Aramis' precise attacks with the sword. He launched more than one counterattack.

The musketeer on the other hand caught the second man rising to his feet again out of the corner of his eye, and he mentally prepared for an attack from the side.

But in this tiny moment of inattentiveness caused by exhaustion, his opponent managed to push Aramis' sword arm aside and break through his efforts at defense. Aramis caught the reflection of the sun on the blade right before it was rammed straight through his injured leg.

A strangled scream of surprise escaped his throat and he blindly fired his pistol at the man who had impaled his leg, but judging by the grunt of pain and the angry growl, he had failed to hit anything vital.

He reached for his leg with a shaking hand, but once again he spotted the attacker coming towards him. Gritting his teeth, Aramis stumbled backwards, before he lost his balance and sank to his knees.

He looked up into the face of the soldier, and suddenly, the tides had turned.

* * *

Athos had soon realized that at the moment, he was the only sword standing between the English forces and the civilians. The barricade at the door looked quite substantial, but it didn't correspond to their current plan anymore. They were getting the people out, and giving up this godforsaken village.

Luckily for Athos, Lucien had been brave enough to follow him, and was tearing the barricade down and shouting instructions at the people inside. Athos was busy enough outside.

One foolish enemy tried to shoot Athos from close-range, and all he had to do was duck his head and stab forward with his rapier. It made an ugly sound when he pulled the blade out.

His main-gauche collided with the blade of the second man, and Athos quickly but elegantly managed to break through his poor defenses and disarm him. One strike later, the man fell face-first to the ground.

Out of the corner of his eye the musketeer caught Lucien urging the people out of the house, and in the distance, he could see a line of villagers approaching from the forge, where Aramis was doing his best to keep the English at bay.

Athos was fighting on two fronts now. He used every loaded pistol he could get, his own or those of the poor souls that dared to oppose him, to shoot at the English pursuing the fleeing villagers, and at the same time, he fended off the soldiers approaching Lucien's house with his sword. His eyes were continually searching the entrance of the village for any sign of Porthos or Arthur, but he could see nothing. The only evidence for Porthos was the fighting noise not too far away.

"Hurry!" Athos yelled over his shoulder to spur the villagers into action. They needed to get out of here, now.

He barely even noticed the men he was crossing swords with anymore; most of his attention was on the people running away at his back. He saw that no English soldier pursued them, probably because they were all focused on the French musketeers. More and more English troops started to swarm the entire village, and when Athos risked a quick glance, he wasn't able to see Aramis around the forge anymore.

Still, there was no trace of Porthos, or Arthur and the rest of the musketeers. Athos lost track of how many men he had fought, and he had lost sight of the villagers a few minutes ago.

When an English blade cut through his left arm, right underneath the fresh bandage, he let out a hiss and dropped his main-gauche. He was going against five men now, and wherever they had come from, they intended on ending this as quickly as possible. He wasn't able to block five strikes at once, so he did the only thing he could do.

He made a step back, evading two swords at once, while a third cut through his armor. Athos rammed his injured elbow into the attacker's face and turned around for a counter-attack, but he was hopelessly outnumbered.

The last thought that crossed Athos' mind before he felt a bolt of pain shooting through his back was that they hadn't stood a chance from the very beginning. He crashed down to the ground, trying not to let go of his sword.

They had confidently walked into their doom. A pistol went off somewhere else in the village.

Athos managed to lift his gaze and he saw the attack coming, but he was too slow. With a loud crack, the foot connected with his head.

* * *

_*A toise was a measurement unit in Pre-Révolution France. It equals about 2 metres, or 6,5 feet._

_Thank you for reading, and also a big thank you to Uia and Laureleaf for your lovely reviews. I appreciate them!_


	7. Among the Dirt and Steel

_Disclaimer: Raw violence ahead._

**VII. Among the Dirt and Steel**

Aramis was breathing heavily, looking up into the eyes of the man who intended to be his executioner. The other soldiers let go of him, and started running towards a target behind his back. Aramis realized with a heavy heart, that target could only be Athos.

He couldn't turn his head to look. Right now, there was only him and the English soldier standing in front of him. The man sighed, and while he leveled his gun at Aramis' head, he maintained eye-contact. Aramis could have sworn he saw pity in his pale eyes.

"I'm sorry," he said in broken French, and his finger nervously twitched towards the trigger of the pistol. Judging by the man's posture and his expression, Aramis could guess that he had been a soldier for a long time; however, he didn't take his duties lightly.

Aramis made the decision in the blink of an eye. Just as the flash of determination passed the English soldier's eyes, the musketeer used all of his remaining strength and leapt forward, catching the man in his chest and throwing him off his feet. The pistol went off way too close to Aramis' left ear, and he grimaced and wrenched the smoking weapon out of his opponent's hands. Without thinking twice, he dug his boots into the ground and pinned the other man to the ground before he started throwing punches.

His fist connected with his opponent's face, and he could feel how he knocked a tooth out of the man's jaw. The soldier struggled, and his free hand found Aramis' wounded leg. He grasped the hilt of the dagger still embedded in Aramis' leg, and gave it a twist.

The musketeer hissed in pain and let go of the man, only to receive a heavy punch against his temple. He fell backwards, and his back collided with the village forge. He desperately searched the area for some kind of weapon, but he couldn't find any, and seconds later the claws of his opponent dug into his throat and the English soldier's red face appeared above him.

As Aramis gasped for air, he felt something cold and heavy underneath his searching hand. Without thinking twice, he grasped the unknown object and smashed it hard against his enemy's head. The grip around his throat disappeared and the musketeer crawled backwards through the dirt, gasping for air and trying to get up on his feet.

The English soldier was pushing himself to his knees. Aramis, in pure survival mode, tried to gain as much distance as possible; half crawling, half stumbling, he made his way out of the forge.

Suddenly, his foot slipped and he landed on the ground again, his shoulder colliding with a cold weapon. His eyes widened when they landed on the pistol that had almost killed him just a few moments ago. He snatched it off the ground, and started fumbling with the gunpowder he always carried with him.

The English soldier was back on his feet, clearly stunned, but already looking for Aramis. The marksman was reloading the weapon with calm and steady hands. As soon as he had held the weapon in his hands, he felt victorious.

The man had found Aramis and picked up a sword somewhere before he approached. Aramis didn't waste one second. He raised a shaking arm, and barely managed to catch the surprise on the man's face before he pulled the trigger.

The cry of pain and the ultimate collapse of the English soldier assured Aramis he had hit his target somehow, but he was unable to go and make sure. He collapsed to the ground and for a moment he lay there, stretched out among scattered weapons and fallen soldiers.

Pain, no longer numbed, suddenly exploded in his leg and he risked a quick glance towards the wound. The knife was still sticking out of it, and a pool of blood had begun to form on the ground. His skull was aching, and he still felt the phantom fingers digging into his throat.

Under usual circumstances, he would just have lain here, and waited for a rescue. But somewhere in his mind, he remembered that he wasn't alone here. He heard no more fighting noises at his back, and his heart clenched with fear for Athos. No matter how much the musketeer had tried to keep his distance from the other men during the past two years, Aramis had grown to like him; he even considered him a friend. And the image of a friend being defeated in this godforsaken place filled his heart with terror.

Not being able to walk, he started dragging himself through the dirt.

* * *

Porthos was fuming with anger, and the adrenaline flowing through his veins urged him to ignore the burning sensation that threatened to consume half of his face. He carefully set the girl down. He heard a high scream somewhere in his back, and saw a woman rushing towards him. She had probably just escaped the village, and she immediately cradled the little girl in her arms, speaking soothing words.

Porthos straightened back up, to see the crowd of musketeers lined up in front of him, staring at him expectantly. As if they were waiting for what he had to say. Why would they?

"We should split up," Porthos suggested, failing to hide his panic.

Arthur nodded in agreement, and for a short moment, nobody said a word. The fighting noises from the village sounded even louder in Porthos' ears.

"Théo, take five men and guide the people towards the camp," Arthur ordered, and Théo complied without comment. Arthur grabbed Porthos by the shoulder. "Lead the way."

Porthos, a little bit surprised at the blind faith and trust these men seemed to put in him, nodded and turned on his heel to head back towards the village. At least ten English soldiers greeted them in front of the village, emerging from the main road up the slope.

The musketeers, about thirty men, had approached quietly and the English troops, complacent due to their presumed victory in the village, blindly ran into the waiting swords. Porthos had learned to pity his opponents, but at the moment, he wasn't capable of such emotion. The only thing he felt was anger, and the adrenaline was running through his veins, guiding his sword through the English forces.

When the Englishmen were dealt with, Porthos raised a fist, motioning the others to hesitate. He heard hooves in the distance, announcing the arrival of the horsemen Aramis had warned them about.

"Use the pistols," Arthur, one of the most experienced men among them, hissed. "Try to take their horses if possible. We need every animal we can get."

"Athos and Aramis are down there," Porthos added. "Priority is to support them, and to guide the civilians to safety, should any of them still be stuck in the village."

He heard several agreeing noises in his back; not all of them sounded as determined as he had hoped, but he couldn't care less. The English riders had emerged out of the forest, and they were heading towards the village, presumably to support their troops there. They had not noticed the Musketeers.

Porthos led the musketeers towards the village entrance, not without throwing worried glances in the direction Théo and the civilians had taken.

"Perhaps it's best to not make our stand inside the village?" Arthur hissed. "We still have a chance to decide where we want to fight."

"We've got men in there," Porthos replied bluntly.

"Porthos!" another musketeer had approached, grasping Porthos' arm tightly. "Do you hear any fighting noises? Any evidence that there's still resistance?"

Porthos considered just storming the village himself if he had to, but he had to admit that defeating the English soldiers had to be their top priority. He gritted his teeth, but he nodded.

"Fine. Suggestions?" He didn't even try to hide how much he disliked this.

"Lure them out of the village," Arthur explained, "and fight them on an open space, where we can see them."

"Good God, where have you learned your tactics?" another musketeer chipped in. "The horsemen will almost be unbeatable in an open field. In the village on the other hand, there's barely…"

Porthos didn't hear what advantages fighting in the village had. A flying piece of metal had caught his attention, one that looked sharp and deadly. Without thinking twice, Porthos grabbed Arthur by the arm and moved him aside, the shouted warning getting lost in the sudden tumult as the dagger missed Arthur only by inches.

Porthos turned his head, and saw the English troops charging towards them.

"So much for the plan!" the musketeer to his right said, and Porthos knew that his brothers-in-arms did not need any orders, nor did he feel obliged to give them any. They formed two lines, just in time as the English soldiers arrived. The second row fired their pistols, and at least eight English soldiers were taken by surprise and tumbled to the ground.

"The horsemen, the horsemen!" Porthos reminded them angrily, knowing that they had used half of their ammunition when there were still at least ten horsemen who would be hard to take out with a sword. He could immediately hear the sound of men reloading pistols behind him.

Due to the blood from his facial wound, Porthos had trouble seeing his enemies properly, but he raised his sword just in time. He blocked the attack from an English soldier, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw a small and agile horse charging towards him, the rider wielding his sword menacingly.

In one very lucky moment, Porthos parried the blow of the foot soldier so hard that instead of Porthos, the English soldier was hit by his own comrade's sword. The musketeer used the expression of surprise on the rider's face to his advantage, and just when the man tried to regain the control over his horse, Porthos roughly cut through the man's armor and sliced through his leg. The horse reared up, and Porthos backed away, feeling unsafe without his pistol, which he had lost when he had rescued the girl.

The rider locked his eyes on Porthos again and dug his heels into the animal's flank. The musketeer grabbed the hilt of his sword with both hands, planting his feet firmly in the ground and preparing himself for the impact that was to come.

Suddenly, he heard the wheezing sound of a bullet missing his head only by inches, and the bullet lodged itself in the chest of the rider, who collapsed over his horse's neck.

Porthos turned around to see Arthur lowering his pistol, winking at his friend with grim satisfaction.

"I consider myself lucky that you're a good marksman!" Porthos yelled and stepped aside in order not to get run over by the riderless horse.

One of the musketeer cadets had approached from behind, and hastily grabbed the agitated horse's reins, apparently remembering that they could use the animal.

Porthos threw himself into the next battle, but had to realize every now and again that he was lucky to have musketeers like Arthur by his side. The man had saved Porthos from at least three attacks on his blind side.

His eye was bothering Porthos more than he was willing to admit, but the adrenaline kept him going and he didn't stop once. The battlefield shifted towards the other end of the village, and he blindly fought one duel after the other, driven by nothing but sheer willpower.

Every now and again, he had a close call with one of the horsemen, but the musketeers, disciplined and focused, managed to take most of them out with their pistols. Most of the animals however disappeared into the woods.

"They are running away!" the cadet Guillaume said triumphantly, and pointed towards the English forces, who indeed had started to retreat. But Porthos didn't feel victorious yet.

"We pursue!" Porthos yelled as he yanked the sword out of his enemy's hands. The man dove underneath Porthos' punch and started running with the others.

"Where to?" one musketeer asked, but it was a question Porthos could not answer.

"As far away as possible!" he yelled angrily, and continued to pursue his former opponent and chase him towards the southern shore.

Arthur suddenly appeared by Porthos' side, throwing him a long dagger.

"We could be running straight into a trap, you know," the man commented, but with such serenity it made Porthos believe Arthur was on his side after all.

Porthos merely shrugged and concentrated on not getting shot. The Englishmen ran out of the village and into the safe cover of the trees. The entire musketeer division was on their heels, and as they blindly ran through the village and towards the forest, Porthos couldn't help but keep an eye out for Aramis and Athos. But in the chaos of horses running around and men engaged in duels, while others simply ran away, he wasn't able to make out his friends.

They just had to hold on long enough.

And they pursued the English forces south, with only one goal in their minds: As far away from here as possible.

* * *

Athos awoke with a loud gasp. His mouth felt dry, and he rolled to the side trying to catch his breath. He was nauseous, and his head felt like it had been cracked. There was blood all over his temple, he could feel it, but he just continued to gasp for air and get some fluid back into his mouth.

"Monsieur, you must stay down," a voice sounded from somewhere, and Athos wearily tried to make out the blurred features of a young boy, fourteen years old at most, hovering over him and pressing a piece of cloth against Athos' aching head.

As far as Athos could tell, he was surrounded by silence. Except for the boy, he didn't hear another soul, so either the battle had been won or he had been left behind.

The musketeer narrowed his eyes. "What…?" he cleared his throat, his hand grasping the hilt of a knife he carried with him. "Who are you?"

A shadow passed the boy's face, but he kept pressure on the side of Athos' head. "You have a head wound, monsieur. You shouldn't move until help arrives."

"Answer my question," Athos replied firmly, slapping the hand away and grabbing the boy's wrist.

"I'm Leo," the boy answered mildly. "I live in this village with my parents. I was helping out at the stables, but as soon as I heard of the attack, I came back." He made a pause, apparently waiting for any kind of reaction from Athos. The swordsman merely sighed and closed his eyes, not responding to anything.

"Cévry has been overrun," Leo continued slowly. "I believe the English general's troops tried to push further north, but they encountered the musketeer division. Last I've seen, the musketeers chased them back towards the beach at Saint-Blanceau."

Athos swallowed hard, and eventually opened his eyes again. "You shouldn't be here. It is dangerous." He tried to move backwards, but stopped when the movement caused a burning pain in his back.

"You didn't stand a chance," Leo continued to talk, and Athos needed all of his self-control to stay calm. "Alone against at least forty men?"

"Three," Athos whispered grimly. "We were three against forty."

Leo raised an eyebrow and lifted his head to search the destroyed village for any indication of other musketeers. "Well, you are the only one I found, and you were the first one I found. Three against forty." He shook his head in disbelief. "I suspect the stories we hear about the musketeers are true. You are tough, and slightly insane."

Athos felt a strange urge to laugh, but he contented himself with rolling his eyes and sending the boy a piercing glare. "You should go. Go to your parents, they should be in the camp north of here."

Leo nervously twitched his fingers. "I can't leave you here, Monsieur."

Athos, tired of discussing this, took the cloth out of Leo's hands and pressed it against his head himself. "The musketeers will probably come back for me."

_Probably?_ To be honest, he wasn't sure. He doubted that Porthos and Aramis would leave him here, but Athos wasn't exactly the most popular man amongst the other musketeers. Hell, he barely knew them and vice versa. Perhaps they assumed he had fallen in the battle.

Leo didn't move, he just stared at Athos skeptically, so Athos finally had enough.

"The English might still be around. I don't want this to be for nothing. So get up, and go."

Leo's eyes widened slightly, and he looked insulted. He got up slowly, casting one last glance back at Athos before he disappeared out of the musketeer's sight.

In his mind, Athos could almost hear Aramis scolding him for the lack of courtesy, but truth was, Aramis wasn't here. Porthos wasn't here. Athos had no choice but to hold on in the bitterness of the fresh battlefield, relying on his own stubbornness and the hope that the musketeers cared about him enough to come back for him.

* * *

_On the other side of Cévry_

Aramis had only managed to crawl a few feet before the pain in his leg had become unbearable. He tried to move another foot, but the blade sticking out of his thigh jarred over the uneven ground, and caused blinding agony each time.

The marksman was exhausted, and eventually collapsed to the ground, concentrating on his breathing and listening to the fighting noises which seemed to grow more distant with each second passing.

How unnecessary. They had been sent here to defend the island, and they were defeated within the first week. Aramis almost felt embarrassed. He just hoped that it all hadn't been for nothing, and that the villagers had been able to escape. His mind ultimately wandered to Porthos and Athos.

He thought he had heard Porthos' voice among the others that had chased the English troops out of the village a while ago, but he wasn't sure. He had no clue about the whereabouts of Athos, but the silence that enveloped them was deeply unsettling.

His hand reached for his leg, but he didn't dare to remove the blade. Instead, he tore off a piece of his shirt, and started a poor attempt to stop the leaking blood. Aramis gritted his teeth, and eventually, his head sank back into the dirt, surrendering to the exhaustion.

He tried to turn his head, and his eyes found Lucien's house in the distance. He couldn't make out any living soul, and his heart dropped at the thought of Athos. Aramis carefully dug his hands into the dusty ground and tried to move his injured leg, but stars suddenly exploded behind his eyes and made him freeze immediately.

Aramis was sure that the battle wasn't over yet, it had merely shifted to a different location. Until it was over, he was left with nothing but the sheer hope that his comrades would stand their ground, and the hope that they would come back for him.

"You know, if it hadn't been for you, we would've just passed through." The sharp, but faint voice cut through the haze in Aramis' foggy brain, but for some unknown reason, he didn't even flinch.

The marksman looked the other way, past other bodies and shattered weapons, and found his former opponent, leaning awkwardly against the forge, his hand clasping the gunshot wound in his lower abdomen. Gut shot. Painful, and slow. Not what Aramis had intended.

"The moment we saw your uniforms…," the man continued with a thick accent, as soon as he knew he had Aramis' attention, "this village became our…how do you say it? Problem? Threat?" A dry, humorless laugh escaped his throat and ended up in a small cough. "How I wish you hadn't been here."

Aramis said nothing; he merely sent the man a look that spoke volumes. He didn't have the energy or the desire to engage in a discussion with a man who had tried to kill him moments earlier.

His hands automatically started fumbling with the pendant he wore around his neck, a small, silver cross he never took off. And in the agony of uncertainty, he started mumbling words of a prayer, some in Latin, and some in French. His bloodied hands clasped the pendant tightly.

A thud behind his back told him that the English soldier had fallen to the side now, and he could feel the man staring at him, but he continued. His mind wandered towards the musketeers, and fear, cold and dangerous, welled up in him the moment he realized that things had gone astray on their second day on this island. And he feared how many more they would have to endure.

He closed his eyes, sending his prayers and thinking of his friends, his comrades, each fighting their own battles. "Amen." The pendant dropped back on his chest, and his shaking hands found his bleeding wound again.

"Yes." The voice from behind him spoke softly, thoughtful, and filled with pain and understanding. "Amen, brother."

* * *

_Also thank you again to Laureleaf and Uia who I can't respond to personally, I treasure all your comments!_


	8. The Guilt is Mine

**VIII. The Guilt Is Mine**

The chase continued for at least another mile.

The musketeers were dangerously split, and it was a weakness Porthos immediately spotted. "Musketeers!" He didn't need to say more; they instantly reacted and started to run closer together. It appeared ridiculous to Porthos. Here they were, running after the English troops like a horde of barbarians. With their only goal to chase them as far away as possible. Every now and again, one brave English soldier fired a pistol at them, but the short moment he needed to stop and aim cost him dearly.

Porthos' head was pounding, and the blood running into his eye limited his vision enormously.

"How many are left?" one musketeer, Porthos did not know who, called out to the others.

It was Arthur's voice that answered. "About ten, maybe fifteen."

Porthos decided to save his breath for the running, but a queasy feeling in his guts told him this needed to stop. He had no idea how long they had been pursuing the English, but something told him it was enough.

Behind the cover of the trees, he could see the dunes, which meant they had chased them through the forest and all the way back to Saint-Blanceau, leaving the village and every musketeer remaining there unguarded. Porthos refused to believe that Aramis and Athos had been killed in the village, and he needed to go back as soon as possible.

Porthos narrowed his eyes. The English soldiers had no place left to run. Which meant the Musketeers were a lot closer to the English General and Buckingham than they were comfortable with.

"Wait!" Porthos' shout reached the others just in time and they came to a halt just as a salvo of gunshots tore through the air in front of them. The English perimeter defenses had noticed the musketeers' approach, and reacted immediately.

The English troops continued running and stumbling towards the safety of the beach, and Arthur finally raised his voice.

"Let them go, we turn back!" His tone tolerated no protest.

"But they…," Guillaume started, but Porthos and Arthur simultaneously made a dismissive gesture.

"Leave them be," Porthos panted. "If we go on, they'll shoot our heads off on the beach. Besides, we must go back."

Guillaume raised an eyebrow. "You mean to the village they almost overrun? Wanted to destroy?"

"Yes, exactly!" Porthos snapped. "We owe it to the others, and we owe it to everyone who got caught in the crossfire today." Turning to Arthur, he admitted, "The English had us by surprise, they would have killed us all if you haven't arrived…"

"Porthos!" Arthur insisted, grabbing his brother-in-arms by the neck and pulling him into a quick hug. "We prevailed. We won."

"Today, yes," Porthos replied, casting a worried glance towards the English camp in the distance. "But this is going to be a siege. And we're only on day two."

* * *

_Meanwhile, in Cévry_

Athos took a deep breath, and made another attempt to sit up without whitening his vision. His arm felt like it was on fire, and he was pretty sure that his back was a mass of bruises, if he was lucky. But the worst thing was that his skull felt like it was going to explode.

He ran a hand over his face, and felt the trail of blood running down his forehead. But he was sure he had heard voices somewhere in the village and in the dead silence that enveloped him ever since Leo had left, it meant that someone else was here. He wasn't sure yet if it was a friend or a foe.

His shaking hand reached out to the abandoned sword of one of his earlier victims, and his fingers closed on the cold metal of the sharp blade. He carefully pulled it through the dirt and used it as support to lean on. His vision swam, and while he concentrated on taking in deep, calm breaths, he could barely ignore the pain it caused in his back with every movement. It reminded him of the time when he fell out of a tree as a young boy. His father's lecture was something he'd never forget, and neither he nor Thomas had ever climbed a tree again. He just hoped that nothing was broken.

His eyes wandered over the ground in front of Lucien Valle's house. The barricade of the door was in pieces all over the ground, and most of the English soldiers who had tried to get in were dead. Athos could barely remember having fought them.

The floor was grotesquely decorated with abandoned weapons, bodies and shattered wood, and right next to the doorstep of Lucien's house, next to the splintered barricade, was one body that caught Athos' eye in particular. The man wasn't dressed in a uniform, nor did he have his hands clasped around a weapon. He wore nothing but a linen shirt and leather pants; his long, grey beard was dirty and bloody. There was one single gunshot wound in his chest, and the blood was dripping slowly, watering the earth.

A phantom fist punched Athos straight through the chest, and wrapped its iron claws around his heart. A civilian. One who had tried to escape, and had gotten caught in the crossfire. One Athos hadn't been able to save. Guilt suddenly crashed down on his shoulders and he swayed, his hand wrapped tightly around the hilt of the sword that kept him upright. He tried to calm his breathing, and held onto the sword so tightly his knuckles began to whiten. Sweat and blood were slowly running down his forehead and into his eyes, but all he did was blink, trying to process what had happened and what he had to do now.

Another sound pulled Athos out of his distraction and his attention snapped towards the road. It was the sound of something dragging over the dirty ground, sharp and scratchy, and despite his blurred vision, he was able to make out a figure slowly crawling towards him, leaving a trail of blood.

Athos' alarm bells went off and he grasped the sword with both hands before he dropped to the ground again. It needed all of his willpower not to groan at the pain the movement caused he heard now was the scratching over the ground and his own shallow breathing. He was ready to defend himself if necessary.

"Athos?" The voice was low, barely more than a whisper, but it was enough for Athos. "Is it you?"

He suppressed a smile of relief and rammed the sword into the ground once more. "Over here."

Never had he been so grateful to see another musketeer. Not only were their odds of survival increased, but his worry for the fate of his new-found friends was eased. For some reason he took comfort in that.

For it was none other than Aramis who revealed himself as he half-dragged, half-limped his way towards Athos. He looked exactly how Athos felt.

Aramis' face was pale and bathed in sweat, his expression pinched with pain and a little relief. He continued to drag himself over the ground, past the bodies in front of Lucien's house and collapsed against the house wall five feet in front of Athos. He was panting due to the exhaustion, but his eyes had their usual spark.

Athos did not know how to react, nor did he know what to say. He merely stared at his friend, with numb, defeated eyes.

"I see you decided to follow my advice," Athos finally spoke up. It was meant as a droll witticism but his voice lacked any kind of lightness.

Aramis raised an eyebrow. "The 'don't die' advice?" He chuckled weakly. "Yeah, it really saved my life out there."

Athos lowered his head, and mumbled an answer Aramis did not hear. His head sank back against the wall of the house, and Athos could see he was clutching a stranger's pistol in his bloody hands.

"They got out, I think" Aramis whispered, and his mouth formed something like a relieved smile. "At least it wasn't for nothing."

Athos' face darkened and his eyes wandered to the ground next to Lucien's house again, where the old man with the gunshot wound lay. Aramis' keen eyes followed the swordsman's gaze and locked on the body as well, quickly putting the pieces together.

He gulped audibly, and his worried glance was aimed at Athos directly. "It's not your fault, Athos," he said sincerely, but his words were barely a comfort. "You did all you could. We both did."

Athos put on the mask that hid his emotions. He merely managed a light shrug. "Doesn't make it right, does it?"

"There was chaos out there," Aramis countered with an unusually sharp tone in his voice. "I don't know if I succeeded, Athos, but I know that you and I both did everything within our power."

Athos scowled. "Doesn't … change things either."

Aramis made a sound as if he wanted to reply to that, but decided against it. He just looked at his comrade with tired eyes.

For a moment, they sat there in silence, both occupied with their own thoughts and feelings. Athos couldn't bring himself to divert his gaze from the man, but something inside him screamed at him to get his priorities straight. Survival. That was his first priority.

Aramis seemed to have similar thoughts. "Porthos will come back for us," he stated mildly, with a weary expression on his face.

"Porthos could be anywhere, and who knows how this battle will end for him and the others." Athos knew it was painful, but it was the truth. They knew Porthos would come back for them if he could, but the when was a whole different question.

Aramis met his gaze, but said nothing. Athos scanned him from head to toe. The marksman was pale, and as he searched the ground Athos could see the pool of blood that had formed underneath his leg. His limb was trembling hard.

"Can you walk?" Athos asked matter-of-factly.

Aramis huffed a miserable laugh. "I almost got strangled, there's this constant, annoying ringing oh, and there's a knife embedded in my leg, mon ami. Why do you think I dragged myself here?"

Athos closed his eyes, as the pain in his skull grew worse. "I see," he whispered.

"What about you? Any injuries, apart from," Aramis made a wide gesture, "You know the obvious." The medic-side in him had emerged at an instant, and he approached his friend slowly, scanning him for obvious injuries on the outside.

Athos groaned. "My skull feels like I got trampled, and I don't think I'll be using my left arm again anytime soon. But yes, I'm fine."

"That's all?" Aramis asked sharply, his eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"Yes," Athos lied, just as another bolt of pain shot up his lower back.

Silence, again. Aramis seemed to weigh Athos' answer, to find out whether it was the truth or not, but in the end, he fell back on the ground in defeat.

"Look, on the bright side, we're not dead yet," Aramis said dryly.

The swordsman merely lifted his gaze and rolled his eyes.

"Thank you, for your valuable input," Athos panted and ignored Aramis' huffed laugh. "I suppose you don't have a suggestion on how to proceed?"

Aramis coughed briefly and turned his head to oversee the mess that was the village. "Getting the hell out of here doesn't sound like a bad idea to me."

Athos closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. "You don't say."

The marksman cleared his throat, and grabbed Athos by the arm. "So I can't stand, and you can't walk. Perfect conditions, I guess."

"Haven't tried walking yet," Athos replied instantly, and started leaning on the sword in order to get up safely.

Aramis looked at him warningly. "You can't see yourself, Athos. Half of your face is covered in blood; you can consider yourself lucky if it's only a concussion. Don't try it."

"At least I have better chances at walking a straight line than somebody with a damn knife in his leg," Athos growled stubbornly and started to rise from the ground, his arm trembling heavily.

"Fair point," Aramis granted, and locked his fingers into Athos' sleeve. The swordsman hissed angrily.

"Come on," Aramis insisted.

Athos tiredly threw him a glare. "Excuse me?"

His friend hinted a smile. "We may be damned, but at least we're not alone. Let's do this. Come on. I'm not planning to die in this damn village because of my own stubbornness."

Athos stared at him for a short moment, but then he gritted his teeth, using all of his remaining force to lean onto the sword and drag himself into a standing position. He suddenly froze. Through his foggy brain, he heard more voices, yelling in excitement or in urgency, he couldn't tell.

A quick glance towards Aramis told him he had heard it as well.

"How high is the chance that this is Porthos rescuing us?" the marksman hissed quietly, wincing in sympathy when Athos gasped as he continued to stand up.

"You mean considering our recent luck?" the swordsman countered and gritted his teeth.

Aramis sighed. "Yes, you're right. We're done for."

Athos didn't pay him much attention. As soon as he straightened up, his world started spinning, but he took a second to calm his breathing and ignored the pain.

"Come on. Let's leave this damned place." With grim satisfaction, he offered Aramis a helping hand.

* * *

_Beach Saint Blanceau, Ré Island_

„What do you mean, you couldn't?" the English General, Lord Eadmund, asked dangerously slow, as he approached the reporting soldier. The man was bathed in blood and sweat, and his legs were trembling due to exhaustion.

"We were overrun, Sir," the man spoke quietly.

Eadmund ran a hand through his hair, his eyes wide open with disbelief. "You lost against a small group of French soldiers? You had them outnumbered!"

"Musketeers!" the soldier suddenly raised his voice, glaring at his superior in a manner that was not appropriate to his rank at all. "They were musketeers. The three of them in the village had decimated our numbers by eighteen." He swallowed hard. "Sir, three of them killed eighteen of ours. And then thirty more of them arrived. We didn't stand a chance!"

Eadmund hesitated for a second. He considered having this man arrested and punished for his behavior, but then again, he remembered he had a reputation to lose, and he couldn't really blame the soldier.

"So, you're saying that one small regiment, musketeers of the King, apparently, didn't retreat to the citadel with Décart and the rest?" He tried to focus on what information he could gather, before he decided what information was worth sharing with the Duke.

The man shook his head. "Yes, sir. We scouted the northern areas, and spotted them in a village. We…" His voice broke off, and he choked slightly. "We just saw their uniforms, saw their weapons and opened fire. The civilians there…"

"…were caught in the crossfire. They weren't the target," Eadmund cut in. "Why did you attack them anyway? You had no orders but to patrol the area," the Lord asked sharply.

The soldier in front of him bit his lip, and lowered his gaze to the ground. He said nothing.

"Who gave you the order to attack?" Eadmund repeated.

The man finally found the courage to face his superior again. "It was Edwards, Sir."

The General sighed and ran a hand over his face, before he approached the now kneeling soldier. "Tell me, do you address Edwards with _Sir_? Or with _General_?"

The expression on the soldier's face turned to stone. "No, Sir," he replied monotonously.

"Then he was not authorized to give orders, and you were not allowed to take them from him," Eadmund pointed out coldly. "Where is Edwards?"

"He's dead, Sir. The musketeers killed him in the village."

The General growled something incomprehensible, but eventually offered the man a hand and pulled him to his shaking feet.

"You had your orders, soldier. Get your wounds tended to, and get some rest. Then, you'll report me again, and leave out no details."

The man nodded, bowed his head and limped out of the tent. Eadmund turned on the heel, risking a quick glance towards the map that was spread out on the table in front of him. They had English flags all over the southern beach, and with a grim look on his face, he marked the northern area with a French flag. They now were fighting on two fronts.

With that, he left the tent, shouting for someone to fetch him a horse. His lieutenant arrived moments later, a tall, black horse by his side.

"Where are you going, Sir?" the lieutenant spoke up, handing the General the reins of the agitated stallion.

Eadmund grasped the reins tightly and swung his leg over the horses' back. The animal snorted angrily.

"The Duke awaits me."

* * *

_Don't worry, Porthos is definitely not on the sideline in this story. Special thanks to Sara, Uia and Jmp for the anonymous reviews, I am really thankful for it! Thanks everybody for reading!_


	9. Red Dawn

**IX. Red Dawn**

Athos gritted his teeth as he and Aramis stumbled along the road into the safety of the trees. His world was spinning, but he was carrying Aramis as much as Aramis carried him. His friend could barely put any weight on his injured leg, and Athos used all the remaining strength in his good arm to keep him upright while trying to clear his own vision in the meantime.

"We could just lie down and pretend to be dead you know," Aramis wheezed next to him, although he didn't stop moving. "We both look like it anyway. I bet they won't look twice."

Athos growled. "I'm not taking any chances."

"They are coming closer," Aramis hissed and bit down a pained groan when they both stopped abruptly to listen. Athos' vision almost whitened, but he blinked rapidly and tried to get rid of the blood running into his eye.

"We can hardly run away from them. Hiding is the only option we have left," Athos countered coldly and tried to drag Aramis towards the trees, but his friend's boots were rooted on the spot. His hand was searching his weapon belt for gunpowder, and Athos quickly understood and threw him his own little bag, which was attached to his belt.

Aramis reloaded the pistol he had collected somewhere with a speed of which only he was capable, and nodded to Athos that he was ready to continue now. But Athos' just gestured him to be silent, and his eyes were locked on the three shadowy figures he was able to make out at the entrance to the village. He narrowed his eyes, but with the blood dripping into his eye and the nausea, it was hard to make out the uniforms.

What he was able to make out though was the sudden reaction of the three men, and he saw them all pulling out their swords simultaneously, before they started running towards them.

"Aramis," Athos ordered urgently. "Your pistol."

To Athos' surprise, Aramis didn't say a word and merely threw him the freshly reloaded weapon. Athos knew that the men had spotted them already, so he didn't waste any time. He closed one eye, and took his aim before firing the weapon.

One of the men went down immediately, though Athos had to admit it was a lucky shot considering how much his hand was shaking. The second attacker almost tripped over him, but kept going. Aramis was staggering towards a rapier that was embedded in the ground, about eight feet away, but Athos knew that he and Aramis would not be hard to beat in their current condition.

His fingers gripped the butt of the pistol, ready to defend himself with any means necessary. Aramis had fallen to the ground, but he too had wrapped his hand around an abandoned weapon, staring at their attackers with a mixture of bewilderment and aggression.

And just about two seconds before they came within arm's reach, four gunshots pierced through the air. Athos watched how the bullets ripped through the two men's chests, and they collapsed face forward to the ground.

Athos was frozen, every muscle in his body still anticipating danger. But when the smoke from the fire cleared a bit, and he saw the very familiar figures of Porthos and Arthur striding towards them, he dropped Aramis' pistol and closed his eyes in relief. And he felt guilty, because he had doubted them.

* * *

To his relief, Porthos had realized that he had arrived back in the village just in time to save Athos and Aramis from the two remaining Englishmen. After making sure the village was finally secure, he had sent the rest of the group which had been with him back toward the musketeer's camp, while he and Arthur stayed to help Athos and Aramis.

Now, about half an hour later, they were slowly approaching the fortress gates.

Aramis had one arm around Arthur, and he was more being dragged than he was doing any walking by himself. There was a large dagger embedded in the flesh of his upper thigh, and the whole area was soaked in blood. He was very pale, but in true Aramis manner, he had insisted it looked worse than it was. Athos had merely countered that it would be for Gino, their medic, to judge. They had decided not to take a look at it until they were all safe behind the fortress walls.

Athos, even though he had insisted he was fine and able to make it back on his own, was being supported by Porthos. Though he didn't have any visible injuries to his legs, it was obvious that someone or something had smacked him hard against the head, and half of his face was coated in blood. When Porthos pointed this out, Aramis agreed and just secretly rolled his eyes when Athos insisted it was nothing. Additionally, Athos' previously injured arm was now bleeding badly, and the blood was already dripping through the makeshift bandage. His crooked posture told Porthos that there were probably at least some bruising on his back as well, but Athos had said nothing, so his friend had merely urged him to accept the help so they could reach the fortress more quickly.

Now that all of the adrenaline was wearing off, Porthos was overcome by exhaustion. He felt it in every bone of his body, and his eye was swollen shut and burning with pain. He gritted his teeth, and heard someone yell at someone else to open the gates of the fortress. Porthos had a comment ready, but he was too tired and instead focused on getting Athos through the gates, closely followed by Arthur, who apparently had to endure some light-hearted swearing by Aramis.

He was greeted by Guillaume, and the gate was firmly closed once they were all inside.

"This way," Guillaume said without wasting any time and led them through the busily working mass of soldiers towards the tent where Gino was undoubtedly already in his element.

Arthur eased Aramis to the ground slowly, and Porthos tried to sit Athos down next to him, but Athos had other plans. He more or less gently pushed Porthos away and staggered towards the medic's tent without saying a single word.

Porthos knew what would happen before he saw it. Athos stumbled, tried to lean against a wooden pillar where he dropped to his knees and suddenly fell sideways, giving in to the exhaustion. Porthos cursed at his friend's stubbornness, and hurried over to him, but before he could bend down to turn Athos over, someone grabbed his arm tightly.

"I got him," Gino said brusquely. "Stay out of my way."

Porthos knew better than to argue with Gino, so he took a step back and let him work. He turned around to where Arthur had left Aramis, but the marksman was already being carried inside the tent. His eyes were open but Porthos didn't think he took much notice of his surroundings anymore.

Feeling helpless, he had no choice but to retreat to the wall, and rest his back against it. He exhaled slowly, and for the first time since their return, he soaked up every detail of the scene in front of him. Some men, like Aramis for example, would argue that silence after a battle was the worst of all. However, as the screams and the intense discussions reached Porthos' numb ears, he wasn't so sure about that.

Porthos had absolutely no idea how many musketeers there were at the moment, nor did he know how many were injured. All he saw were men scattered all over the fortress, looking exhausted and beaten. Some sat alone in a corner, eyes wide open and staring into the distance, lost in their own thoughts. He spotted some men sitting together, most of the time talking quietly, but intensely. And last but not least, there was the space all around Gino's tent. Porthos couldn't see what was going on inside, but a handful of musketeers were assisting their medic, and he heard yelling and screaming from inside the tent.

Porthos pressed the palms of his hands against his head, in a weak attempt to escape the sound for a moment. He heard footsteps approaching him, and eventually, he looked up.

It was Arthur who leaned against the wall next to Porthos, and for a few moments, they remained there in silence. Then, Arthur started rummaging in his pockets and pulled out a cloth. He gestured towards Porthos' eye.

"Put it on there. You're still bleeding. You should let someone look at it once the storm here is over." Porthos didn't protest, in fact, the cool cloth was welcome against his burning skin. He sighed and closed his good eye.

"I got some information out of Gino," Arthur reported, his voice dry as paper. He didn't look Porthos in the eye; his gaze was fixed on something in the distance, something only he could see.

"And?" Porthos asked tiredly.

"Six injured, including Athos and Aramis. Two casualties."

"Civilians?" Porthos intervened, not quite sure if he would like the answer one way or another.

Arthur shook his head in dismay. "Musketeers," he said, and despite the fact that his face looked like stone, Porthos could hear it in Arthur's voice. He was absolutely shaken.

"During the chase, Thomas got hit by an English bullet. Straight in the head." Porthos felt a weird numbness creeping up his skin as Arthur continued. "The others carried him back here. Laurent is still in the medic's tent but…"

His voice broke and he swallowed hard.

"But?" Porthos couldn't hide his anxiety.

"Gut shot," Arthur reported quietly. "I believe Gino has given up. Said something about having to deal with those he can still help."

Porthos felt the shivers down his spine. "Gino's a heartless bastard, but I don't want to be in his shoes." He buried his face in his hands, still processing the information. "Who's hurt?"

Arthur managed a vague shrug. "Athos and Aramis. I believe I saw Gino tending to Philippe and Henri. Not sure about the other two. It's kinda crowded in there."

Porthos bit his lip, choosing his next words very carefully. "What about Mathis? Has he returned to the camp?"

Arthur's face darkened immediately, and he diverted his gaze. Porthos knew that those two had some sort of connection, but he had never dared to ask.

"No," was all Arthur managed to get out between clenched teeth; and Porthos saw his knuckles whitening as they strengthened their grip around the wooden pillar.

The big musketeer pressed his lips together. "Well…shit," he murmured under his breath.

Arthur looked up again.

"We need orders, Porthos," he explained tiredly and ran a hand over his face. "We need someone to take the command." Porthos knew Arthur wasn't accusing him, or complaining. He was merely stating facts.

Porthos nodded slowly and slowly slid down the pillar and rested his head against it. "I know. But until then, we play with the cards we're dealt."

* * *

Aramis awoke to the smell of blood and sweat. He wasn't sure when exactly he had lost consciousness, but he vaguely remembered being dragged into the fortress, so at least, he had nothing to be afraid of for now. He blinked a few times to clear his vision, and he saw the linen ceiling of a tent. His fogged brain started putting the pieces together, and he slowly remembered where he had to be.

_Medic's tent. Fortress. Ré Island. _

The memories of the past day flooded his mind and he gasped as his own sudden movement jarred the wound in his leg. Then his ears started picking up the noises and it was mostly muffled screams and, above all, harsh commands.

"Hold him still!" That was Gino's unmistakable voice. "Damn, hold him down, I said!"

Aramis couldn't see who they were currently working on. His mind was still trying to process what has happened, and what he was dealing with. They had been in that village, and they had been attacked. They had tried to distract the attackers so that the villagers would be able to flee. Then he only remembered a forge, and he still felt phantom hands around his throat. He had started searching the village; he had crawled forward on his elbows.

What had he been looking for?

The realization hit him so suddenly that he twitched hard. His vision whitened instantly when pain shot up his entire leg.

_Athos_. He had been looking for Athos.

He lifted his head and tried to get a closer look at whoever was being held down by Guillaume, but Gino's back was blocking his view. However, as he let his gaze wander over the assembled people, he felt a bit of relief when he spotted Athos lying on the ground a few feet away. He was unconscious, it seemed, but there was one musketeer kneeling next to him and tending to his wounds, which was a relief.

Aramis discovered Philippe close by, a freshly stitched wound all across his naked shoulder. His worried gaze was fixed on whomever Gino was working on.

"I said I needed bandages, not this crap," Gino was hissing at another poor musketeer. "Unreliable idiots. Where's Aramis? I need his assistance."

"'hind you," Aramis murmured, more to himself than to Gino, but apparently, the medic had heard him. He whirled around and, probably for the first time, noticed Aramis' presence in the tent. The look he had on his face was a mixture of compassion and anger.

"You really pick the most inconvenient times to get a knife in your leg," he huffed.

Aramis rolled his eyes. "I'll ask for your permission next time," he whispered in a hoarse voice.

Gino scowled. "Damn right."

With that, he turned around again and continued to work on the badly bleeding side of a man Aramis recognized as Henri. He tried to ignore the queasy feeling in his guts and lay back down on the ground, drifting back into the oblivion of exhaustion.

* * *

Of all the ways he had expected to wake up again, screaming in agony when blinding pain erupted in his leg wasn't the one he had been prepared for, despite the circumstances.

"Told you he'd notice, now keep him still," Gino's voice cut through the agony. "The bleeding needs to be stopped before I can close the wound."

Aramis sucked in a sharp breath when burning liquid was poured over the wound in his leg. He couldn't even place it. He felt a pair of hands holding his upper body on the table. He didn't even remember being placed on this table. He instinctively tried to lift his head and look at the wound himself, but suddenly, Gino's grim face appeared in front of him, growling something incomprehensible and he was roughly shoved back on the surface.

Aramis vaguely recognized the face of the musketeer that was holding him down. Guillaume?

"What about the others?" he asked, trying his best to ignore whatever Gino was doing to his leg. "Athos? Porthos?"

Guillaume didn't seem to pay him much attention. He was taking orders from Gino half of the time, and only granted Aramis a slight nod which assured the marksman that the musketeer wasn't listening to him.

Instead, Guillaume reached behind his back and pulled out a leather belt someone had given him and handed it to Aramis.

Aramis just blinked at him in confusion, just before he jerked upwards again as Gino seemingly stabbed him again. At least it felt that way.

"You know what it's for." Guillaume cast a quick glance towards the leg Gino was working on. "Trust me, you'll need it."

* * *

The next time Aramis awoke, the tent was plunged in darkness. Two candles sitting on the nearby table were the only sources of light available. He was back on the ground, with a clean linen sheet underneath his back.

Gino was sunken in the only chair, and by the looks of it, he was fast asleep. His hands were covered in dried blood, and his clothes bathed in sweat.

Aramis felt like he had been trampled, but he managed to lift his head. He narrowed his eyes and tried to adjust them to the dim light. The tent was emptier than before. Phillippe was gone. On the other side of the tent, also on the ground, he discovered Henri, on whom Gino had been working earlier. He had a large bandage around his chest and was very pale, but the quiet snoring assured Aramis that Gino had done his best.

Next to him sat Guillaume, with his back to Henri. He was facing another man on the ground, one who was clamping his hands around bloodied, red bandages around his lower chest. With a heavy heart, Aramis recognized the musketeer named Laurent. Even in the dim light and at that distance, he was able to make out the origin of the wound. Gut shot.

He closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. His mouth opened to offer comforting words, but not a single sound escaped his lips and he uselessly dropped back on the floor.

And suddenly, he remembered. Where was Athos?

His head shot up again, and he instantly regretted it as a bolt of pain jarred his entire leg. His panicked eyes searched the tent for Athos, and he finally discovered him, barely touched by the candle's lights, in the outer corner of the tent. His lower back had been wrapped, and he sported a bloodied bandage around his wounded arm. His face had been cleaned, but by the looks of it, he was unconscious.

"Awake already?"

Gino's voice came out of nowhere and Aramis' twitched in surprise. The medic was in the same position as earlier, but through the dim light, his keen eyes were fixed on Aramis.

Aramis managed a confirming half-snorting, half-growling sound.

"Get some rest," Gino ordered. "I fixed your leg best I could. But I advise you not to do any running any time soon. Or fighting." He made a short pause as he realized how stupid his words would sound to Aramis' ears. "Just, take it easy, will you? I don't want my work to be for nothing."

Aramis exhaled slowly. "What about Athos and Porthos?"

Gino raised his eyebrow at the question, but bit down whatever witty remark he had ready. "I saw Porthos earlier. He's getting some sleep, but I told him to come see me later so I can take care of his eye." Gino hesitated as his eyes wandered over to Athos. "Athos is hard to tell. He's difficult to read. He didn't react to pain; he didn't react to any of my treatments." He made a vague gesture towards his own head.

Aramis closed his eyes. "Head injury."

Gino grunted as confirmation. "Head injury. In combination with enormous exhaustion, I suspect. I stitched the wound, but we'll know more when he wakes up. I believe the worst things are the two wounds on his arm. The second slash reopened the one he received at Saint Blanceau, and I wasn't able to stitch it. It stopped bleeding, but it's important that it doesn't get infected." He shrugged. "That's all I was able to find. His back is bruised, but I'll find out more once I get to talk to him."

Aramis managed a dry laugh. "Don't expect too much. He's not exactly the most talkative person around."

Gino's eyes were fixed on Laurent on the ground. "Neither am I."

Aramis tilted his head to the side, narrowing his eyes in suspicion. He didn't know Gino too well, he had merely assisted him during the past few weeks; however, it was obvious he wasn't finished yet.

"Any news from the English?" Aramis asked, and used the back of his hand to wipe the sweat off his brow.

Gino leaned back in his chair again, finally diverting his gaze from Laurent. He shook his head. "Not necessarily. But Arthur reported about ten minutes ago that a messenger from the Fort arrived, bringing news from Commander Décart."

Aramis heart sparked anew with hope. "Mathis is back?"

Gino's face darkened, and he just shook his head once again before he continued. "Buckingham is besieging the citadel. Décart heard what happened, and he says it's time we go back under his control."

Aramis raised an eyebrow. "He's sending orders?"

Again, a shake of the head. "He's sending us a General. General Suard. He'll take the command as soon as they find a safe way through Buckingham's forces." Gino was clenching his hands nervously, his jaw was tense. Aramis did not know the General; he couldn't connect the name to a face. But Gino's reaction surprised him.

"You don't seem too happy about it," Aramis whispered just as he felt exhaustion overtaking him once again.

Gino's mouth twitched, but he didn't answer. "Get some rest, Aramis. Once the General is here, you won't get much."

* * *

_As usual, also a big thank you to Uia and Laureleaf for the kind words!_  
_Wishing you all merry christmas, and wonderful holidays!_


	10. Storm of Silence

**X. Storm of Silence**

„Porthos?" An urgent voice dug its way into Porthos' consciousness. "Porthos, wake up!"

The musketeer opened his eyes at once. The sun was beginning to rise, and he blinked against the bright light bathing the fortress in its warmth. He realized he was sweating, probably due to the heat and his leather uniform, and it was making the wounds on his face burn. He must've slept the entire night.

He dizzily looked up into the grim-looking face of Arthur, who met his gaze impatiently.

"Sorry to wake you, but if I have to listen to this Lucien for another minute, I might just try to take out Buckingham by myself." He made a dismissive gesture towards where the civilians were standing in a crowd. "They wanted to see one of the musketeers in charge."

Porthos grunted. "Well, I ain't in charge alone. Actually, nobody's in charge."

Arthur just rolled his eyes and offered Porthos a hand, which the musketeer gladly accepted. "Aramis and Athos are injured, so you're the only one left who was there when the village was evacuated."

Porthos just stared at him, not sure how to react or what Arthur expected him to say.

"You and I, we need to make a plan," Arthur merely pointed out and shrugged. "The others are waiting for their orders."

Porthos ran a hand over his face. "Well, I'm in no position to give orders. Neither are you." He sighed. "Alright, you make the plan for the morning patrol," he suggested. "I'll see Gino for my eye, and then I'll see how the civilians are doing."

"Thank you," Arthur replied shortly, turned on the heel and disappeared into the command tent.

Porthos took a deep breath and readjusted his weapon belt. He risked a side glance towards where the civilians were crowded together, but his heart told him to see Gino first. Mostly, because he needed an update on Aramis and Athos, but also because his limited vision was not only painful, it was beginning to bother him.

He slowly strode over towards the tent, when a voice interrupted him midway.

"Porthos!"

The musketeer bit down a groan once he recognized the voice and came to a halt, tiredly rubbing his good eye. He didn't even bother to look up; the source revealed itself soon enough.

"Porthos, wasn't it?" Lucien had appeared in front of Porthos, with the mother of the child Porthos had rescued on his heels.

Porthos just nodded slowly, trying hard to maintain an indifferent face. "What is it, Lucien?"

Lucien hastily folded his hands in front of his chest and put on a self-conscious expression. "We all were wondering about the next steps, but apparently, nobody speaks with us. This musketeer…Arthur was his name I think?...was quite rude. Didn't want to tell us anything."

Porthos just glared at Lucien and raised an eyebrow. "You want me to repeat the question?"

Lucien seemed a little unsure, but he kept going. "Ever since we got here, we were treated as if we weren't even here and I'm just here to say…"

"Please, Monsieur," the woman interrupted Lucien, and approached Porthos slowly. "Don't listen to him. You don't have to explain anything. Rest assured we understand." She sent Lucien an intimidating glare.

"How's your daughter?" Porthos asked out of curiosity. He was afraid he had scared the child.

The woman smiled. "Shaken, but alive. That's all that matters. I can't thank you enough, Monsieur."

Porthos made a dismissive gesture with his hand. "I'm sorry we weren't able to save everyone." He had seen the few dead civilians when he had entered the village again in search of Aramis and Athos. He had also seen the look on Aramis' face when he had briefly addressed it. He intended to stay silent about it for now.

"You warned us. You did all you could," the woman said and shrugged.

"Listen, I'll make sure you get everything we can give you, everything you need. But my first priority has to be the safety of this fortress, and I have to see after the wounded."

"A couple of hours ago you were insisting on taking care of us, and now you refuse to do so?" Lucien complained, not able to hide the angry tone in his voice.

"Lucien," the woman warned again, but she was ignored.

"No, I want an answer. We were offered some water, and that's all. No places to sleep, and, most importantly, nobody here speaks to us! What on earth are we supposed to do next? What are the orders?"

Now Porthos was slowly beginning to lose his patience. "There are no orders. We were busy trying to save the lives of musketeers, Monsieur," he replied with a coldness Athos would have appreciated. "I apologize if our efforts on saving lives caused inconvenience for you. But at the moment, I have more important matters to take care of than your comfort."

He tried to turn away, but Lucien roughly grabbed his arm. It took all of Porthos self-control not to defend himself against the man with violence.

"Don't just walk away from us!" Lucien threatened.

"Lucien!" This time, the woman didn't take no for an answer. "The man is wounded. Leave him alone, you'll get your answers eventually."

And with that, she roughly shoved Lucien out of the way and sent a quick glance to Porthos, offering him something that looked like a smile. Porthos didn't wait another second and hastily made his way over to the medic's tent, trying to keep his anger and frustration at bay.

In front of the entrance, he was greeted with the bitter scent of blood and sweat and before he had a chance to enter the tent, three figures came out and almost collided with him.

He recognized one of them as Gino, the other one was Philippe. In the middle, they were carrying the body of Laurent. Laurent's head rested on his bloodied chest, his eyes were closed and his skin devoid of any color. Porthos felt something heavy weighing on his chest at the sight. The chances of surviving a gut shot were slim, however Porthos had dared to hope, as giving up was the last thing he ever was going to do.

"We were thinking of putting him to rest near the cliffs, outside of this fortress," Phillippe explained with a hoarse voice and didn't look at his friend once.

Porthos could do nothing but nod, but then Gino took over. "Good you're here," he said with an authoritative tone in his voice. "Go inside, make sure the stubborn idiot doesn't hurt himself while I'm gone."

Porthos raised an eyebrow. "'re we talkin' 'bout Aramis or Athos?"

Gino hesitated. "Fair question, but this time I refer to Aramis. Athos is still unconscious. Should he, for whatever reason, wake while I'm away, make sure he doesn't move. Not until I got a look at him, understood?"

"Yes."

Without further instructions, Porthos headed inside the tent, fleeing from the image of Laurent dangling between Gino and Philippe and running straight into another image he didn't like any better. On the right side of the entrance he found Athos, stretched out on a linen sheet. He had been stripped of his jacket and weapons, and he sported a blood-soaked bandage around his upper arm as well as one around his head. He was breathing shallowly, obviously not awake.

On the other side of the tent he found Aramis, propped up against a chair, with his leg resting in an awkward angle on the dusty and bloodied ground. He was very pale, and the unshed tears gathered in his open eyes told Porthos that he must be in pain. Porthos noticed that his leg was trembling, and the marksman was trying to steady it with both of his hands.

"How 're you doin'?" Porthos greeted with a low voice, careful not to wake the other, resting musketeers.

Aramis' eyes shot up, and once he spotted Porthos he instantly seemed to be a bit more relaxed. He grimaced. "Been better, but I'll be fine."

Porthos merely raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, but I don't think you'll be running again anytime soon."

Aramis rolled his eyes. "Yes, Gino already said that. But the blade luckily missed the artery, still it bled a lot and may have hurt some muscle and bone. But as I said, I'll be fine." His gaze wandered over to Athos lying on the floor to Porthos' right. "It's him I'm concerned about."

Porthos shared the concern, but he knew he needed to show the optimism Aramis seemed to be lacking at the moment. He made a dismissive gesture with his hands. "Ah, you know him. He's too stubborn to leave the command to the two of us."

Aramis snorted. "Doesn't make it any better. Without his expertise and Tréville not with us, there's no one here to scare the men enough to listen." He hesitated for a short moment and looked up to Porthos. "No offense."

Porthos scowled. "None taken. I'm good at intimidating people, but we all know that most of them don't trust me."

An angry expression crossed Aramis' white face. "Their loss." His eyes locked onto the bloodied spot on the other side of the tent where Laurent probably had lain. "General Suard is on his way to take the command."

Porthos shrugged. "And? I don't know him. At least somebody finally takes the command."

"Yeah…," Aramis voice was barely more than a whisper. "Gino seems pretty worried about it. Don't think he and the General are close friends."

Porthos leaned back against the wooden pillar. "Gino's a heartless bastard, he has more enemies than friends. Still, one way or another, there's nothing we can do about it. And we _need_ someone to take the command." His eyes involuntarily found Athos. "What about him?"

Aramis sighed. "Quite banged up. As long as the arm stays clean, he'll be fine, but he took a nasty hit against the head. I'm worried about him. He has never been the one to talk, but seeing him this silent is still …"

"Frightening," Porthos concluded grimly, and he too shot a worried glance towards Athos' form on the sheets.

Aramis lifted his head and stared at Porthos. "How are you dealing with the civilians?"

The other musketeer grimaced. "Lucien's testing out boundaries he should not touch. Everybody is doing his best, but Tréville's absence is quite noticeable."

Aramis leaned himself back flat on the ground. "We three did the best we could." Porthos could see that his friend did not know whether he was lying to himself or not.

Porthos grinned. "Indeed we did." He started moving again. His first stop was at Athos' side. Athos looked pale, but his steady breathing assured Porthos that he was alive and, according to Gino, probably going to be fine. His arm was a bloody mess though, and the musketeer decided to talk to Gino about it.

He then made his way back over to Aramis, and took the chair his friend had rested against moments earlier.

He quickly noticed Aramis' worried gaze.

"What?"

"Your eye," Aramis just rasped and tried to prop himself up on his elbows. He narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "Let me have a look."

Porthos bent backwards, and moved away a few inches. "Don't bother. Gino will check it out once he…" He cleared his throat nervously. "Once he and Philippe find a solution for the fallen."

Aramis' face darkened, but he insisted. "It looks like a deep cut."

Porthos rolled his eyes. "Here you are, bleeding from a deep stab wound, not even able to walk but still insisting my eye is that bad, eh?" He waved his hand at his friend. "I appreciate it, but save your strength."

He was aware of Aramis' stern glare, but the marksman chose not to comment any further.

"We thought we got them all out, you know," Aramis whispered, his eyes now resting on Athos' unconscious form on the other side of the tent. "We were overrun. There was nothing we could do, and I believe that the fact that Athos and I are still breathing is a miracle from God." He made a pause, and released a stuttering breath. "Porthos, we are residing in a trap here. This was only one day. How on earth shall we survive a siege?"

Porthos swallowed down the lump in his throat. In moments like these, Athos' pragmatism was definitely needed. But the swordsman remained still, in his place on the dusty ground, not saying a single word.

"Your realism is not appreciated now, Aramis," Porthos admonished. "That's the pain speaking. Get some rest, clear your head and tomorrow you'll see what I see."

Aramis now looked utterly confused. "What do you see?" he simply asked.

Porthos crossed his arms in front of his chest. "A fine fortress and plenty of men to protect it." His gaze softened. "No one said it'll be easy. But you know how we musketeers are…"

Aramis grinned darkly. "Yeah. Too stubborn to die." His gaze found Athos again. "I'm sure he would agree."

His friend laughed audibly. "No, he'd just stare at you with annoyance."

Before anyone else could contribute something to this conversation, Gino drew all of the attention as he entered the tent again. He had dark circles under his eyes, speaking of the rough night he had, but without saying one word, he just knelt down in front of Porthos and without further hesitation, he started treating the cut.

Porthos hissed at the unexpected burning sensation that spread all over the side of his face.

"You found a place?" Aramis asked, his voice hollow and dull. He wasn't even looking at Gino.

The medic huffed. "Yes. Philippe and Arthur took over. Near a cliff, outside of the fortress." That's all he said, and nobody dared to speak up again, everybody lost in their own thoughts. Gino continued working on Porthos' eye, cautiously cleaning the wound and sewing it as best as he could.

"It's gonna leave a scar, I'm afraid," Gino grunted with the needle between his teeth as he was adjusting the thread on the skin. "But you're lucky the blade missed your eye. You could've lost it otherwise."

Porthos grunted, as if he wasn't sure whether he should be feeling blessed or doomed.

Loud steps announced the arrival of another man in the medic's tent, and the linen sheets parted to reveal the musketeer Guillaume.

"Porthos?" he turned his head and his eyes landed on the big musketeer sitting next to Gino. "Porthos, good to see you're here. We need you outside, the civilians are getting agitated."

Porthos sighed. "I know. But as I told them, we'll come back to them as soon as we can." He let out a frustrated growl. "We only have two hands."

"I need to perform some medical examinations anyway," Gino explained and shouldered a leather bag full of supplies. "I'll come with you."

"If you two brutes talk to the scared and traumatized civilians, they're gonna wish they had never left the village," Aramis chipped in bluntly. "Help me, and I'll try to calm the tension."

"Not a good idea," Gino insisted coldly. "I tried my best, but I have no idea what else is damaged in your leg, and I don't think we'll be able to find out until we make it back to Paris. Wrong movements could lead to permanent damage in your leg. You don't want to limp for the rest of your life, do you?" His question was left unanswered.

"You expect me to sit around for the next weeks, and let you do all the work?" Aramis huffed. "I appreciate the offer, but you can't seriously expect me to do that."

Gino stared at him for a short moment, and the hint of a smirk was visible on his face. "No, of course not. I'm just saying if your wound gets infected or you lose your balance somewhere in the mud of this damn island, I'll leave you there."

Aramis managed a weak grin and teased: "Don't be too empathetic, you're competing with Athos."

Gino scowled. "I'm doing my best." He shot Porthos a look and carefully put an arm around Aramis' left shoulder. Porthos bent down and did the same with Aramis' right.

"On three," Porthos warned. He could feel the tension in his friend's body.

"One…" Aramis exhaled loudly.

"Two…." Gino and Porthos, without saying a word, had agreed to pull the marksman up on Two. They stood up, Aramis' injured leg dragging stiffly over the floor and slowly coming to a standing position.

Aramis himself looked like all blood had been drained from his face, and he was cursing Gino and Porthos quite colorfully in all languages he knew.

"You asked for it," Gino growled and waited until Aramis had regained something like a balance. He turned his head to look at Guillaume. "You stay here, watch Henri and Athos. Should Athos wake, make sure he stays where he is. I don't need another uncooperative patient."

Guillaume saluted sarcastically. "No promises. You know Athos."

Gino just rolled his eyes and together, they headed outside.

* * *

Aramis himself wasn't sure that it had been a good idea to move at all, but he hated sitting around doing nothing. His priority was to look after Athos, but as long as Athos wasn't awake, there was nothing he was able to do.

When Gino and Porthos had helped him up, his vision had whitened completely. His entire leg was aching and burning with pain, and he knew for sure that putting any weight on it would prove to be a bad idea for now. Instead, he decided to bite down any signs that would confirm to Gino or Porthos how much it hurt, and he let himself be guided outside the medic's tent. He could feel his leg wound leaking blood, but he didn't say anything. Helping his friends, and helping the civilians was his top priority.

"Over here," Porthos mumbled and they stumbled along to where the crowd of civilians was gathered near the fortress gate. They carefully approached them, and Porthos eased his friend down so he could sit on a rock. Aramis sighed in relief when he stretched out his shaking limb, and his tired eyes finally found Lucien, the self proclaimed spokesman of the civilians, who had already approached them.

Before he had a chance to say anything, Gino took over.

"My name is Gino, I am the medic of the musketeer regiment." He gently but firmly pushed Lucien backwards so there would be more space between him and the soldiers. "I am here to assess your physical condition."

Lucien opened his mouth. "So, now you're paying attention to us? We've decided we can do just fine without your help by now, thank you."

"It's my job to make sure everybody is healthy. Besides, I need to make sure the risk for the musketeer company is as small as possible." Gino's tone tolerated no protest, but nevertheless, Lucien made an attempt.

"Risk for the musketeer company?" He bristled with anger. "Isn't it your job anyway? To protect _us_?"

Next to Aramis, Porthos chuckled, obviously, he wasn't offended. "Yes, but we wouldn't mind a little gratitude."

Lucien simply ignored him, but Gino did too. He walked over to the other civilians and started a very one-sided conversation.

Aramis took it on himself to answer Lucien, with a mixture of sarcasm and authority. "However, I feel the need to point out that if the musketeer company is in danger, then you are in danger as well, considering at the moment, we're the only ones shielding you from Buckingham and this General."

"There are still some of our people out there!" This was the voice of the woman, the one that had treated the musketeers with so much disgust back in Cévry. "You have to go out and save them."

Porthos stood up straight. "Madame, with all my respect, we don't have enough fit men for another rescue at the moment." He eyed her intensely. "As soon as enough men are recovered, I will send a group out."

"Who are you to give me orders!" the woman snapped, but Porthos didn't even flinch. Aramis watched carefully. These were the situations for which they really needed Athos.

"He's the one who saved your life," Aramis implied calmly from his place on the rock.

"Messieurs," another female voice made itself heard and the mother of the child Porthos had rescued made her way through the crowd of civilians and took her place at Lucien's other side. "We know you are doing everything within your power." She shot a stern look at Lucien and the other woman. "Rest assured you have our gratitude."

"Your son is still out there, Marie, and you want to do nothing?" Lucien asked reproachfully.

Marie's glare sent daggers towards the self-appointed spokesman. "My son," she started, her voice trembling with anger, "is fairly capable of taking care of himself."

"He's fourteen!" Lucien exclaimed doubtfully.

"He's more capable of saving his own life than you are," she shot back. "If you hadn't insisted that we should stay, all of us would have made it out of Cévry!"

Lucien suddenly made a step forward and grabbed the woman by the arm, his fingernails digging into her skin. Her eyes widened.

"You dare…," he started, but before he had a chance to say anything more, Porthos was there, shoving Lucien backwards violently.

"It doesn't matter!" he growled with as much authority he could muster. "No matter what could've gone differently, it's done. We can't change it. But the more time we waste here in senseless discussions, the less time we have to prepare for another attack and help those who need us."

"Porthos, Aramis!" A voice echoed from the gate, and Aramis turned his head to see Théo trying to get their attention. "A rider is approaching."

Aramis twitched nervously, and instantly regretted it when a bolt of pain shot up his entire leg. He clenched his teeth and lifted his gaze towards the gate.

"Théo, who is it?" Porthos bellowed but didn't get an answer. Instead, the musketeer opened the lock mechanisms on the door and opened the gate widely.

Aramis angrily locked his eyes on the gate, wondering why Théo thought it was a decision he could make by himself, but very soon, his anger was gone.

A single rider appeared inside the gate, on top of a giant, grey warhorse. The man wore a pompous, feathery hat, and sported a dark, black goatee. He was tall, and the armor he was wearing made him broader than he probably was. An enormous, white cloak covered his shoulders, and he entered the fortress with the authority of a man who knew exactly his position and his rank.

Aramis exhaled slowly, his eyes locked on the man. And he did not know whether their prayers had been answered, or their troubles had doubled.

* * *

_Special thanks to Uia and Laureleaf for the kind reviews. And thanks to everybody who is still reading. Have a great start into the new year everyone. _


	11. Jamais je ne t'oublierai

**XI. Jamais je ne t'oublierai**

Aramis saw Gino's look as soon as he laid eyes on the newcomer, but didn't dare to ask about it. Instead, he leaned onto Porthos' shoulder, and tried to stand up as straight as possible.

"And who is that now?" Lucien asked impatiently, throwing an annoyed look towards the man dismounting the warhorse.

Arthur sent Lucien a warning glare and after exchanging a quick look with Porthos, who was making Aramis sit back down again, he made a step forward to greet the man.

"Sir." He bowed his head as a greeting. "At your service. Lucien, may I introduce you to General Suard. Commander in charge of the musketeer regiment."

If it were possible the tension in the air grew even stronger as General Suard dismounted his horse and handed the reins to Arthur.

Without further words, he took a look at the situation and merely raised an eyebrow. "Not exactly what I expected to find. What's going on here?"

Lucien slightly bowed his head, acknowledging the general's rank, however, his tone of voice still lacked the respect that might have been appropriate.

"We were just discussing with these musketeers what should be done to meet our needs, which have been totally ignored since we arrived here."

General Suard narrowed his eyes, and then just slightly inclined his head. "I assume you are the habitants of Cévry?"

Lucien nodded, and Suard turned away to face Arthur again, who had handed the general's horse over to another man.

"Who has led the said operation? Somebody must've been in charge here during the absence of a commanding officer."

Arthur lowered his gaze. "Sir, due to Captain Tréville's orders, the musketeers Athos, Aramis and Porthos were authorized to take the temporary command over the musketeer regiment."

Suard shot Gino a quick glance, but then he just raised an eyebrow. "I want to speak with them."

Aramis and Porthos had been silent observers so far but now Porthos cleared his throat and spoke up. "Sir, I'm Porthos. This is Aramis." He nodded into Aramis' direction with his head.

Aramis bowed his head slightly as a greeting, his knuckles whitening as he tightly gripped the stone he was sitting on.

"And the third one?" Suard asked matter-of-factly, not looking too impressed.

"In the medic's tent, sir," Gino spoke up. His face was a mask of stone. "He was injured when he helped to bring the civilians out of the village."

Suard didn't bestow him as much as a glance. "I see." He turned to the civilians. "You will receive food and water soon, and the musketeers will prepare a corner for you to sleep. The tents are limited and reserved for urgent matters only."

For some reason, Lucien did not argue with Suard. Quite possibly due to the authority the man radiated.

"And you three," he said as he eyed Aramis, Porthos and Arthur intensely, "in the commander's tent; I need to be informed." He made a short pause. "I assume it's the one over there?" He pointed towards the said shelter, and Arthur confirmed it.

"Yes, sir."

"Good." Suard slowly brushed past Gino, and Aramis could just make out the comment the general growled under his breath. "In your tent, medic, and return to your post. Don't stand in my way."

As Aramis and Porthos limped past Gino, Aramis raised a questioning eyebrow, but Gino politely ignored him. Aramis noticed that he didn't go back to the medic's tent, instead, he was rooted on the spot, apparently frozen by his own thoughts.

Porthos and Aramis tried their best to keep up with Suard and Arthur, but Aramis was moving painfully, and instantly regretted having joined the discussion in the first place.

"I could get you back to the medic's tent," Porthos suggested in a low voice. "If I were you, I'd take the chance to escape from this…" He shot a questioning look towards Suard. "…meeting."

Aramis gritted his teeth and shook his head, the only answer he could manage at the moment. Porthos growled something incomprehensible, but continued helping Aramis towards the commander's tent.

Once they arrived there, the general was already awaiting them with impatience. His hands rested on the desk with the map, his fingers drumming on the hard surface and Aramis could see that he was full of skepticism.

Arthur was standing in front of the table, nervously rocking his body back and forth, his hands folded behind his back. It was the posture of a soldier in front of a high ranking officer, and Arthur clearly did not know yet what to think of the general.

Aramis had never heard of General Suard, which meant that the man either hadn't yet been responsible for many victories, or Aramis was simply not that well informed about the higher ranking commanders. He was curious to learn more about the man, but he wanted to do so without calling attention to himself.

Porthos took his place at Arthur's side, folding his hands behind his back. Aramis attempted to do the same on Arthur's other side, but the general intervened.

"Sit," Suard said, his eyes locked on Aramis and pointing towards his leg. It was an order, not a suggestion. He motioned towards the small table near the tent's entrance.

Aramis hesitated for a split second, then he limped over and leaned against the surface which took the weight off his injured limb. He sighed in relief.

"So," Suard started, his voice devoid of any emotion. "Commander Décart told me to take the command over the regiment for as long as this island is besieged. You are the musketeer regiment, right? I was told you were forty-two men."

Arthur nodded. "Now, we're only forty. Fifteen cadets, twenty-five musketeers."

Suard raised an eyebrow. "Two casualties already?" He huffed. "Wasting no time I see." The dismissive comment raised an unexpected anger in Aramis, but he was careful not to let any comments slip. The general looked at Porthos now. "Go on, report."

Porthos nervously cleared his throat. "We were sent here as reinforcements. Captain Tréville sent us to La Rochélle first, but the king moved us to Ré Island to support Commander Décart against the invasion of the Duke of Buckingham."

Suard nodded knowingly. "That's why there was no time to worry about authorities. Buckingham didn't take us by surprise, but he still has a lot of men." He made a short pause and straightened up, locking his eyes on Aramis.

"You, Aramis, is it?"

Aramis looked up and raised his chin. "Yes, sir."

"Tell me what the civilians are doing here."

It was a simple request, but Aramis chose his words very carefully. "During our patrol, we discovered the village of Cévry. An English troop was heading right towards it. Not knowing how the English would react, we tried to persuade the civilians to evacuate." He quickly rearranged his thoughts. "The English troops belong to Lord Eadmund, a general in Buckingham's service."

Suard raised an eyebrow. "The Butcher of La Rochelle? I've heard of him."

"He's occupying the area near Cévry," Aramis explained tiredly. "The civilians did not want to leave their homes., but as soon as the first shots were fired, they complied. We evacuated them and chased the English back to Saint-Blanceau."

"Who gave the order to evacuate the citizens out of Cévry?" Suard asked, with a hint of mistrust in his voice, eyeing the assembled men critically.

"I did."

It was a voice Aramis would recognize even in the midst of a battlefield. He turned around, and there, with his arm pressed against his chest and a slightly crooked posture, was none other than Athos.

* * *

Athos had awoken about ten minutes earlier in the medic's tent. The other wounded had been fast asleep, but Guillaume had been guarding them and had insisted that Athos stay exactly where he was.

It had taken Athos barely a minute to decide otherwise and, despite his dizziness, he had risen from his place on the ground and carefully made his way towards the tent's exit. He hadn't been able to spot Aramis or Gino anywhere, that's why he had decided to go look for them. Though he had known it was better to avoid Gino if he wanted to get anything done.

His back ached with each step he made, but he didn't think anything was broken. His left arm dangled uselessly at his side, and the world continued to spin before his eyes, but all in all, he felt it could have been worse.

He now carefully made his way towards the commander's tent from whence loud voices could be heard. The rest of the camp was eerily silent. It was almost unsettling.

On his way, he passed a few musketeers, who were all staring at the entrance of the tent. His world spinning dangerously, Athos came to a halt in front of Théo.

"Théo, what is going on in there?" Athos demanded to know.

Théo jumped when he heard Athos' voice, and by the look he was giving Athos, he was full of doubt whether he was authorized to say something or not.

"The general," he answered briefly, as if that would answer all of Athos' questions.

"General?" Athos repeated slowly. Guillaume only told him that the attack on Cévry had been yesterday, so he had been out for most of the day and night. "I don't remember anything after Cévry."

Théo looked up, Athos clearly had been able to get his attention, and opened his mouth in surprise. "General Suard. Sent here by the order of Commander Décart."

Athos nodded. That was all the information he needed so far.

"He's in there," Théo continued, his voice low as if he was scared someone would listen. "Together with Aramis, Porthos and Arthur."

Athos grunted and headed towards the tent's entrance, where he hesitated for a moment. He didn't even know whether he was authorized to disturb whatever they were discussing in there. He was equal in rank to Aramis and Porthos, but apparently, they no longer were in charge of the musketeers.

He heard Aramis, who sounded very tired, explaining the situation in Cévry. Athos could hear that his friend was trying to justify their decisions, though Athos didn't think it was necessary. It was kill or be killed, and the civilians didn't want to leave on their own. Athos was convinced that they had done the right thing. However, Commander Decart and the general could have a different opinion about that.

"…who gave the order to evacuate the citizens out of Cévry?" he heard the general's voice and that was the moment Athos decided to step in.

"I did." With a face that gave away no emotion, he faced the general and quickly let his gaze swerve over the man to get a first impression. A tall man, staring at him with a mixture of disgust and curiosity. He wore a silver harness, and a huge, white coat was slung around his shoulders. There were some scrapes in the metal, and it hadn't been cleaned for a while now. He sported a scar all the way from his jawline down to his neck. He threw his chest out, and held his head up high, probably in an attempt to intimidate the soldiers in front of him, or to mark his higher rank.

So, all in all, an experienced general, proud, ambitious, dutiful, and not in favor of Commander Décart, as it was common knowledge he and Décart disliked each other. At least, that's what Athos was able to tell after almost a minute.

Athos made an unsteady step forward, careful not to show how shaken he still felt, or how disoriented he really was.

He could feel Arthur's, Porthos' and Aramis' stares on him, but the only one he truly registered was Suard. The man straightened up, and stayed very composed.

"I assume you are Athos?" It was more a statement than it was a question.

Athos nodded. "Yes, sir. And I was the one who gave the order to evacuate the civilians to this fortress." That, technically, wasn't true. It had been one of their wordless communication decisions, none of them had spoken it out aloud, but they all had silently agreed that an evacuation would be the best solution under the given circumstances.

Athos caught Porthos' look, and noticed how he opened his mouth to protest, but Athos gave him a slight shake of the head. He was not trying to claim all the glory for himself. He was trying to direct the blame towards himself. Athos could see the general's look, and he had immediately known that what they had done in Cévry was a decision he opposed

Porthos rolled his eyes at Athos and straightened up nevertheless. "Sir, it was a mutual decision. The three of us agreed that it is a musketeer's duty to keep the French civilians safe. That's why…" He cleared his throat. "Well, that's why we did what we did."

Suard's jaw tightened and for a moment, he looked at Porthos with so much disgust that Athos feared it would result in a physical fight, but the general seemed to remember his position and his restrictions. That was exactly the moment Aramis decided to jump in.

"Sir, it was the only reasonable choice." He took in a deep breath. "The only human choice."

"Then I have to tell all three of you that perhaps, you should have waited for the order to do so. The commander told me our most important priority is to defeat Buckingham by any means necessary. Our military activities, our men and how long they can make a stand on this island, have to be the most important aspect of this siege." A disappointed growl escaped his lips. "Now, you musketeers acted against this goal in evacuating the village, however, I understand your motives, even though I would have acted otherwise. You do know there's a chance that Buckingham would have left Cévry in peace?"

Aramis' eyes widened, and Athos could see that this was no longer Aramis the obedient soldier, but Aramis the musketeer. "This is Buckingham we are talking about!" he injected. "_Sir_," he added through clenched teeth when Athos shook his head warningly.

"I'm aware." The tone in the general's voice was cold and distanced. And his words were a hidden warning towards the musketeer.

Athos could see Aramis' look of disapproval, but the marksman didn't say anything more. Perhaps he didn't dare to in front of the General.

"Sir, with all respect, I believe it's crucial that we concentrate on our next steps, not on our past ones." Athos made a step forward. "We need to plan how to deal with Lord Eadmund, and we need to plan our resources considering that now we have more mouths to feed."

"Is that so?" Suard asked and raised an eyebrow, but he didn't argue. Instead, he slowly straightened up. "Then what do you suggest, Athos?"

"Patrols," Athos stated carefully. "Mark and secure as much of our territory as possible. If we use this fortress as last hideout already, why bother to fight them at all?" He leaned onto the chair for support as a wave of dizziness hit him. Suard noticed it, but he said nothing. He just raised a questioning eyebrow.

"We should built more hideouts for our men, and expand our territory border beyond this wall. I know this is French soil, but at the moment, there could be English soldiers everywhere outside of this fortress. That needs to be changed. We should have patrols formed in order to scout the environment and expand our defences."

"There might be a few civilians left out there, a few farmers working near a barn not far from here. I believe we owe it to them to keep them safe as well," Aramis suggested.

Suard rounded the table and leaned against it, his arms folded in front of his chest. "But you only get to make suggestions, Aramis, _I_ give the orders. However, since we already have the civilians in here, we might as well save all of them. Athos, I want you to make a plan for me concerning the men we will send out to the barn. Aramis, organize the patrols your comrade suggested." He finally laid eyes on Porthos. "And Porthos, you will check the resources we have, and how long they are going to hold with all the people we have in here now."

The three men nodded, and it was Arthur who spoke up again.

"Sir, after the last battle with the English, our men are exhausted." He didn't even try to explain their situation any further. The look on Suard's face told them everything they needed to know.

"The medic will assess who is fit for duty and who isn't," he said, and Athos noticed how forced the word 'medic' sounded out of his mouth. "You have your tasks. Dismissed."

Athos bowed his head, and his friends did so as well with a little delay. Athos had already turned around to leave the tent, grateful to escape the general's eyes, when Arthur spoke up again, his voice shaking slightly.

"Sir, one thing. One of our men is missing. The musketeer Mathis volunteered to scout the area around the fort, as we had no information about Buckingham's troops until yesterday."

Suard arched an eyebrow. "Now that I am here, there's no need. If the musketeer doesn't find his way back, I fear there's nothing we can do. He is either in captivity or dead."

Arthur bravely met his superior's gaze. "Sir, we have to look for him."

Suard's look, if Athos saw it correctly, softened. "I understand your concern, however this is no personal decision, but a strategic one. I cannot afford to risk more musketeer lives for the sake of one."

Arthur bit his lip, then he bowed his head and turned to leave as well. Porthos helped Aramis walk, and Athos carefully put one foot in front of the other as he left the tent side by side with Arthur, leaving the general on his own.

"He clearly doesn't know us," Arthur mumbled under his breath, so that only the other three could hear him. "He doesn't know the musketeer motto."

Athos shook his head. "No. But we have to operate the way he wants. We have no choice."

* * *

_As I was walking by the clear fountain,  
I found the water so lovely I had to bathe._

The words of the song softly echoed through the northern part of the fortress, as the sun started to set again. Athos, Aramis, Porthos and Arthur sat around a small campfire near the medic's tent, with Gino watching them carefully from his place at the tent's entrance. The song came from the musketeer Théo, who had offered to take care of the civilians. One woman had a child with her, not older than three, and it had been crying for the past two hours. Athos had learned to block out the noises he didn't want to hear, but apparently, the others hadn't. So Théo, who had just become a father a few months ago, had taken it upon himself to take care of the young child. His singing voice was strained by all the yelling he had done the past few days, but it was still pleasant to hear.

Porthos was slowly putting some crushed herbs on the cut above his eye, under Arthur's watchful gaze. He grimaced, but that was all the reaction to the pain he allowed himself to show.

Aramis, who had finally cleaned the dried blood from his hands and neck, was lying on the ground, his hat pulled over his face, and his injured leg sprawled in an awkward angle.

Athos, pale as a ghost, had dark circles under his eyes and was silently brooding over a cup of water he was holding with his uninjured arm as he stared into the orange-red tongues of the fire.

_Under the oak's leaves, I lay and dried.  
On the highest bough, a nightingale sang._

"Didn't know we had such a musical talent amongst us," Arthur joked and threw a quick glance towards where Théo was seated next to the child. The mother sat next to him with the hint of a smile on her face, carefully drinking some broth she had been handed.

Aramis, barely moving, snorted. "It's a children's song. Even you must know it."

Arthur raised his eyebrow. "You mean because of all the children I have?" His voice dripped with sarcasm, and Aramis just managed a wave with the hand.

"He's calming the child. And, let's be honest, he's calming down us too," Porthos said with the hint of a grin on his face.

_Sing, nightingale, sing, you of the joyous heart.  
Your heart is made for laughing... mine can only cry._

"Did you plan the patrols?" Arthur asked, addressing Aramis, who looked like he was barely participating in the conversation at all. His mind was clearly elsewhere.

"I gave the general my recommendations," the marksman answered tiredly, his eyes still shielded by his hat. "Athos helped me work out a plan."

Athos' eyes wouldn't be diverted from the fire, but he raised an eyebrow. "I was surprised you two had no objections."

Porthos shrugged. "Trust me, if I believed your suggestions would lead to our certain doom, you would be the first to know."

Athos barely moved. "How considerate of you."

Porthos saluted agreeably and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Concerning the supplies, we're running straight into a major problem. However, the general didn't want to listen."

Athos looked up, and even Aramis' head tilted slightly to the left, indicating both of them were listening attentively. "What do you mean?" Arthur asked.

Porthos sighed. "As expected, with the civilians under our protection, the supplies will barely cover two weeks, even if we pay attention and cut the rations. I spoke to Lucien, and he said there are still supplies left in the village."

Arthur huffed. "So, in the unlikely case that the English haven't raided Cévry, we could gather more supplies there?"

Porthos nodded. "We could. But Suard thinks the risk is too high. He doesn't want to risk the men."

For a moment, none of them answered, and the only thing disrupting the night was the soft voice of Théo.

_I lost my love without deserving it,  
Because of a rosebud I kept from him_

Aramis pulled his hat up a little bit and lifted his head from the ground. "We could easily have one of tomorrow's patrols check it. But Suard knows that. What's holding him back?"

Porthos shook his head. "That's the question."

Athos provided them with an answer. "He thinks he's winning this battle with enough elite soldiers. With fighters. He doesn't take survival into account, he's not seeing that even elite soldiers cannot fight well when they are sick or hungry. It's not like we're on a damn island," he added sarcastically as he grimaced and pressed his hand against his head.

That's when Gino approached from behind, firmly grabbing Athos' by the shoulder. "You get back inside, you as well, Aramis." He sent a stern look towards the marksman who didn't show any reaction or indication that he had heard the medic. "I know you can't rest for the next few days, but at least take this night to recover. You two will be of no use in this condition." He used a harsher tone now, knowing it was the only one that could reach the two musketeers.

Aramis sighed, and Athos just scowled. Porthos watched both of them with a mixture of amusement and strictness.

_I wish the roses were still on the bush,  
And my sweetheart loved me still._

Suddenly, they heard loud noises from the gate. Arthur jerked in surprise, and all of them turned their heads towards where the turmoil had erupted.

"General!" a musketeer somewhere yelled through the fortress, and it was shortly followed by a loud scream and a gunshot somewhere else. Porthos jumped to his feet in an instant. Aramis cursed when his leg prevented him from doing the same and Athos much too slowly climbed to his knees. Gino tried to steady both injured musketeers, but his attention too was focused on the gate. Athos pushed the medic away, rose unsteadily to his feet, and took a step forward, narrowing his eyes.

General Suard emerged from the commander's tent, and headed straight to the gate.

"What's going on?" he bellowed at Guillaume, the musketeer in charge of guarding the gate.

"Civilians, sir, more of them. They're seeking shelter, but the English are on their heels!"

"Porthos," Athos merely said, and Porthos instantly understood. Neither Athos nor Aramis were able to head to the gate now, and neither of them could put up much of a fight. Porthos nodded at Arthur, and both of them ran over to the gate, just as more gunshots could be heard. Judging by the sound they made, they didn't penetrate the wood of the gate. Fists were hammered against the gate from outside.

"Let us in! Help us!"

"Don't open the gate," Suard ordered, and took over Guillaume's position. "How many English soldiers?"

"Only about two dozen, but it's cavalry, sir," Guillaume answered, his voice high-pitched with urgency and a trace of fear.

"That's my son! That's Robert!" The woman whose daughter Porthos had rescued suddenly cried out and ran over to the gate too, and she had to be restrained by Porthos and Arthur. "I know that voice! Open the gate!"

"Four civilians, sir," Guillaume reported rapidly. "If we open the gate now, I'm not sure we can hold the English outside."

"They'd be stupid to charge into our camp like that!" Porthos shouted at no one in particular, but Suard stayed calm and composed.

"At the moment, this gate is the only advantage we have!" he hissed and raised his hand.

Porthos left the woman to Arthur and made a step forward. "Sir, if we go outside, we might have a chance to shoot at the English and..."

"Nobody leaves this fortress!" Suard yelled. "And this fortress does not allow us to shoot at them from the inside. There is nothing we can do!"

Now, they all heard the sound of hooves from behind the wall, as well as the yelling from the civilians, who hammered their fists against the gate, screaming and cursing. Suard watched the whole scene with icy determination.

After a while, the sounds and shouts grew weaker and finally fell silent, as the horses disappeared into the forest again, the sound of hooves on the ground fading with each second that passed

"Killed, or taken?" Suard wanted to know. Guillaume peeked through a small hole in the fortress wall.

"Taken, sir."

Suard just nodded, turned on his heel and headed back to the camp. The woman was crying, Lucien was yelling and Arthur and Porthos were once again trying their best to keep the people at bay.

Athos and Aramis were frozen on the spot, both of them breathing heavily after Gino had to restrain them so they wouldn't run towards the gate. A small trace of blood ran down Athos' forehead and into his open eye. Aramis' leg gave in and he fell back to the ground.

The unsung last verse of the children's song hung in the air, as they all stared at each other with a mixture of anger, shock and apprehension.

_I've loved you for so long, I will never forget you._

* * *

_The song referred to here is a French children's song, __à la Claire fontaine.__ It is dated back to early 17__th__ century, which does not mean its usage here is historically accurate. Obviously, this is the English translation._

_thank you to Jmp and Laureleaf for your kind reviews, I always enjoy reading them!_

_Happy New Year everyone. May your 2020 be filled with joy, happiness and kindness.  
_


	12. A General's Order

** XII. A General's Order**

"Assemble!"

General Suard's order rang through the entire camp. Every musketeer, no matter what he was doing at the moment, immediately headed towards the larger space in front of the gate, some more enthusiastically than others.

Porthos, who had used the night to get at least two hours of sleep, stood next to Aramis and Athos. He and Gino had helped both of them out of the medic's tent where they had been forced to spend the night under the medic's watchful eye. Aramis' leg wound had stopped bleeding, but as Gino had predicted, it was possible that some nerves and muscles had been damaged. The marksman limped badly, however that hadn't stopped him from attending the muster.

Athos looked only slightly better than before. Judging by the violet circles under his eyes, he hadn't slept either, and he was still rather pale. He moved around very stiffly, but Gino had assured Porthos that the bruising on the back wasn't connected to any permanent damage. And Athos was in an exceptionally bad mood, but truth was, after they had left the civilians yesterday evening, none of them had been in a good mood.

The general was standing in front of the lines of soldiers, his arms folded in front of his chest. It was the posture of a man who knew his rank, and who was aware of his authority. But he was unaware of the men he was commanding, as could be read from every face Porthos was looking at right now.

"Men, for those of you who haven't met me yet, I am General Suard and I have been assigned to take command of the musketeer regiment in the absence of Captain Tréville. Commander Décart has given me full authority over this fortress. I've been appraised of the situation, and the musketeers Athos, Porthos, Aramis and Arthur have assisted in laying out a plan for our next steps." He made a dramatic pause and took a brief moment to let his words sink in. But the assembled musketeers, disciplined as they were, showed no reaction. "The citadel is besieged by Buckingham. Commander Décart has the situation under control."

Porthos just threw him a skeptical glare. It had sounded differently during the meeting yesterday.

"Our concern is the English general calling himself 'Lord Eadmund'. Some people refer to him as 'the Butcher of La Rochélle', an untrue statement by the way." Suard put on a confident smile. "I have been in La Rochélle, and I assure you, it's a title he has given himself. He's an ordinary general, the same as I am."

Nobody said a word, and nobody dared to move. Except for Gino. Porthos caught him rolling his eyes at the statement, even snorting in disbelief. He narrowed his eyes. It was unusual for Gino to show his emotions so openly.

The general now made a wide gesture with his hand, and his eyes locked on Athos. "Would you mind?"

Athos nodded and slowly took a few steps forward. His left arm was still pressed tightly against his chest, and Porthos knew Athos was in more pain than he cared to admit. He was moving around so stiffly Porthos wasn't sure he would be able to fight if necessary. But the swordsman reluctantly joined the general and turned towards the crowd of musketeers.

"We have information that there is still a group of civilians outside, near a barn, a short distance from here. We will take our empty supply cart. I'll lead the group...," and that comment earned him a warning glare from Gino, "and I'll be joined by Théo, Fréderic, Dorian and Gabriel. Our only goal is to get the civilians out."

"And how to we plan on feeding them?" the cadet Fréderic addressed Athos. Suard just watched in silence. "We barely have enough supplies for ourselves."

Athos stayed calm. "Would you prefer to have them killed out there? I'm inclined to follow my orders, and I advise you to do so, too." That comment earned him a satisfied look from the general.

Now the general stepped forward again. Athos stayed in the background, his head low, and his hands folded in front of his chest.

"Additionally, we will have patrols securing this area to prevent the English from penetrating further in our direction." Suard now looked straight at Aramis. "I only made minor changes," he said with a low voice, before he looked up again into the unmoving crowd of musketeers.

"Two Patrols will head out this morning, one scouting south-west towards the village Cévry, and the other one heading south-east, in the direction of the citadel. Do not, under any circumstances, get close to Saint-Blanceau." He made a short pause again, and pulled out a piece of paper, the one Aramis and Athos had handed him the night before.

"One patrol consists of the musketeers Valentin, Maxim, Félix, Charles and Martin. The other one has the musketeers Arthur, Porthos, Daniel, Philippe and Aramis. You'll leave in thirty minutes. For the rest of you, I've worked out a plan on how to reinforce this fortress, and how to ration our supplies."

Porthos scowled. Suard hadn't done that, that had been Porthos. But he bit his tongue and looked straight ahead as the general continued.

"We'll have to share with our guests." He threw a meaningful look towards Lucien, who was standing at a short distance with the rest of the civilians. "Any questions?"

"Sir, the musketeers Aramis, Athos and Philippe are in no condition for duty today." All heads turned towards the musketeer who dared to face the general so bluntly, and in a tone that bordered on disrespect.

Suard's eyes flickered towards the source of the statement as well, and Porthos curiously eyed Gino, the medic, who had made the statement. Aramis had told him that Gino's reaction to the general's arrival had been unusual, but he hadn't wasted more thought on it.

Porthos quickly exchanged a look with his friends. Athos paid him no attention, but his brow was furrowed and his arms crossed as his eyes rested on the medic, not shocked or surprised like everyone else, but skeptical.

Aramis on the other hand caught Porthos' gaze. Porthos knew for a fact that Aramis hadn't assigned himself to one of the patrols, as he and Athos had used the entire evening to talk him out of it. That had been Suard's doing.

The general looked at Gino with such a cold expression it could freeze the entire island over. "And how do you reason your statement?"

Gino lifted his head, and it became clear that he didn't have any respect for his superior. Which was unusual, since Gino's sense of duty and authority could compete with Athos'.

"Sir, Aramis can't walk without help. Philippe's injured shoulder prevents him from using his swordarm, and the head injury Athos suffered is nothing to take lightly. He might collapse during the mission."

Suard raised an eyebrow. "I have given Athos the order, and he complied, giving no indication he was not fit for duty."

Gino's face remained inscrutable. "It's a risk." He now looked at Athos. "And you know that."

Athos nodded. "I do."

The medic shook his head and opened his mouth to continue but Suard cut him off. "Philippe," he called, obviously not knowing which musketeer to look at.

Philippe, with a sling around his arm, made his way towards the front row and stood at attention. "Sir?"

The general's eyes flashed dangerously. "You musketeers know how to fight with both arms, correct?"

Philippe blinked in confusion. "I am capable of wielding a sword with both hands, sir, if that's what you're asking."

Porthos gritted his teeth to control the anger rising inside him. To assess how fit someone was for duty was the task of a regiment's medic, not it's commanding officer, no matter the rank. This seemed to be Gino's thoughts exactly, and he didn't hesitate to speak up.

"General, with all due respect, it's my responsibility to inform you when soldiers are unfit for duty. Sending them out means risking the whole operation, and can be considered careless and impulsive."

All the assembled musketeers exhaled simultaneously, and Porthos could see the general's blood boiling. But he was in control of his emotions, and when he spoke, his voice didn't even tremble.

"You're suggesting that Aramis and Philippe remain in camp?" Porthos noticed how Athos' task wasn't even up for debate. It seemed to be decided.

Gino exhaled between clenched teeth. "I fear I'll have to insist."

Suard's eyes flashed dangerously. "As you wish. But you will take their place in the patrol then. Aramis can take over your duties for the time you are gone."

Now Porthos witnessed Aramis open his mouth to protest, but apparently, he had caught the warning glare from Athos first. It was subtle, but the swordsman shook his head. Not because he agreed with the general, but because he knew that this was a lost battle.

The general raised his chin and looked at them with so much confidence it could not be truthful. "You are dismissed. The patrols will leave in thirty minutes."

The musketeers slowly took over the positions they were given, but they did so in silence. Porthos wasn't aware of one word that had been spoken among his brothers.

* * *

_Later that Day_

Aramis was restless. If he could have, he would have paced all over the tent, but his trembling and hurting leg prevented him from doing so. Instead he was restricted to sitting on the table in the medic's tent, Philippe by his side, with a calmness Aramis couldn't help but envy. He had known that he would be of no use on any patrol, which was why he hadn't assigned himself to one. That had been the general.

Aramis couldn't understand the man's motives. The general seemed sure of himself, and eager to win this battle, even though every musketeer here knew that Commander Décart had sent them here as a distraction. But that seemed to be something the general didn't want to see or accept, and under different circumstances, Aramis would have had the greatest respect for that. But still, his superior officer had assigned wounded soldiers to missions when there were plenty of healthy ones to choose from. He had sent their only medic on a dangerous mission, fully aware of the risks involved should the camp lose its medic.

"I could've done it, you know," Philippe said with a voice devoid of any emotions. "I could have done the patrol."

Aramis huffed. "I know. But that doesn't mean you should have."

Philippe raised an eyebrow. How could he still be so calm? "But then Athos shouldn't have gone towards the barn. And..." He lowered his voice, as if he was scared someone might listen. "and the general shouldn't have assigned our only medic to a mission." He was hissing the last words, clearly unable to hide his anger.

Aramis shrugged. "I don't know, but Gino and the general seem to have a history. I won't ask unless someone tells me, but if whatever it is gets Gino killed, we will have a major problem here."

The other musketeer answered with a dry laugh and rose from the table. "We already have some major problems, if you ask me. We lost two men in the first night. We are forty musketeers, against an army of what...hundreds? We know nothing, but still we are expected to do...what exactly?"

"Prevail," Aramis retorted simply.

Philippe sighed. "Great." He angrily kicked a stone over the ground. "Just great."

"Athos' group should have been back by now." Aramis stared towards the tent's exit as if he expected his friend magically to appear there. "What is taking them so lo..."

He didn't get to finish his sentence. The silence that had settled over the entire fortress was suddenly gone. There was yelling, and the sound of boots running over the stamped earth. Aramis was on high alert and as quickly as he could, he limped towards the tent's exit. He had expected the return of one of the groups, but instead, there were musketeers in front of the gate, talking loudly and warningly.

And then, the sounds of cannons being fired drowned out all other noises.

* * *

_Ten minutes earlier, north-east part of Ré island _

Athos was blinking rapidly in order to maintain his focus. Sweat was running over his forehead, and he was breathing heavily. His pistol was in his right hand, and he held the reins of the horse with the other.

They had used the one cart they posessed and sucessfully found the remaining citizens of Cévry. They had hidden in a small building right next to the barn. Athos and his group had saved three children, two women and four men in total. They had loaded the civilians onto the cart, and luckily, these people had been more grateful than Lucien and his group. They had reported the sighting of English soldiers the past night, but apparently, they hadn't approached the French Fortress.

The cadet, Frédéric, seemed to have a problem with the orders Athos had given. When Athos had told them to stay covered, Frédéric had refused and said there was no immediate threat. When Athos heard the sounds of distant hoof beats and ordered to the men to prepare their pistols, Frédéric had argued that Athos could be imagining it due to his concussion. The boy seemed to have a serious problem with authorities. Or, as Athos had figured, perhaps he merely had a problem with Athos, Aramis and Porthos.

Now, Athos was carefully leading the cart, pulled by one of their two horses, off the main path and between the trees that provided cover for them until they were able to reach the fortress. His skull felt like it was going to explode soon, and he cursed every time the horse shook its head and pulled on Athos' injured arm. His vision had blackened twice already, but luckily, Théo, the only other commissioned musketeer in their little group, had noticed and quickly covered him from the curious stares of the cadets.

"Halt!" Athos had spotted movements a great length ahead of them. It could be just an animal between the trees, his slightly blurred vision made it impossible to determine. But he wasn't taking any risks. He didn't want to run into English soldiers. What comforted him was the fact that the fortress was not far anymore.

"There's nothing Athos, let's keep moving," Frédéric just said and continued walking, while the other two cadets did as they had been told.

Athos hesitated for a brief moment, but then he stepped forward, secured his pistol on his belt and firmly gripped Frédéric's upper arm. The cadet looked up in surprise, and Athos realized how his vision darkened again, but luckily, Théo had understood. The musketeer grabbed Frédéric's other arm and together, they pulled him backwards and firmly slammed him against the back of the cart.

"I said stop," Athos growled. "This is your last warning."

Frédéric's eyes flashed with hate. "Since the general arrived, he has the command. You have nothing to say to me."

Athos knew something of Frédéric's background. The nephew of a noble, a baron, residing in the northern part of the kingdom. The man showed all the characteristics of a spoiled child – arrogant, entitled, and with a lack of respect for other men.

Athos opened his mouth, but a wave of dizziness hit him and he clutched the cart for support, the words he had prepared getting lost in a wave of pain. Théo took over.

"I don't know who you think you are, Frédéric, but you are a musketeer now. And Athos and I, we both are of higher rank than you. As long as there is no general present, or no captain, or no lieutenant, you have to do as we say and treat us with the appropriate respect." Théo's voice was deadly calm.

'Did you like being pushed around by Athos and his friends?" Frédéric counted, obviously not learning his lesson. "How he and Aramis and Porthos just gave orders to us, without being authorized to do so?"

Théo's eyes flashed dangerously. "They were authorized by the captain himself. Besides, is there one order they gave you which you believed to be questionable?"

Frédéric closed his mouth. He didn't seem to have an answer.

"From now on you will do as we say. You may voice your doubts about our orders, but you will not ignore or disobey them. Do you understand?" Théo's voice was firm and controlled.

The cadet said nothing, he just stared at the two musketeers with disgust.

"Did we make ourselves clear?" Athos growled, and had to restrain himself in order to not yell.

Frédéric pushed Athos' arm away. "Yes," he brought out between clenched teeth, turned on the spot and disappeared behind the wagon, obviously trying to escape Théo's and Athos' gazes.

The two musketeers grabbed the reins again and continued heading towards the fort, slowly and carefully. The movement Athos had seen earlier turned out to be a wild animal, but he had no regrets. It was better to play safe, especially in their current condition.

He could already see the fortress gate in the distance when a loud noise forced them all to freeze. Even Frédéric stopped, and they all turned their heads, anxiously searching for the source.

Almost immediately the earth trembled and their world was drowned by a loud crashing sound in the distance. A sound Athos, especially after his last experience on Ré Island, would recognize everywhere.

_Cannons. _

After the initial shock had passed, and their entire group had realized that they had not been the target, Athos lifted his gaze and instantly spotted the smoke in the distance, in a south-westerly direction. One shot after the other followed, and the musketeer had to restrain himself not to jump into action.

"Fortress. Quick!" Athos ordered and Théo bellowed at the cadets to get moving. The civilians on the cart were clinging to each other, scared and frightened. But Athos' only thought as he clenched his teeth and forced his body into a faster pace, was that the cannons were bearing down close to where the village of Cévry was located.

And, at the same time, where some of the musketeers were patrolling.

* * *

"What's going on?" The general had left his tent and joined the crowd of musketeers assembled around the cart near the fortress' gate. Aramis was standing at the sideline, and though he was relieved that Athos had safely returned from the mission, his worry was not eased one bit.

"Cannons were fired, sir," Athos reported to his superior. Athos looked as bad as he had in the morning, but Aramis chose not to say anything in front of the large crowd. Instead, he focused on the general's reaction.

"Any suspicions where?" the general threw a quick look towards the civilians Athos and his men had just rescued from the barn.

"Our guesses are that the village of Cévry was the target, sir." That was Théo's voice.

"Your guesses?" Suard repeated and arched an eyebrow.

"Our information about the geographical distribution of this island is not completely reliable," Aramis chipped in and limped two steps forward. "But, given that they are not firing at us, it's the only reasonable target."

Suard targeted him with a skeptical look, but eventually, he nodded. For a moment, nobody said a word. The assembled musketeers were staring at their superior, and the civilians were talking quietly and rapidly, some were crying at the news that their home was the possible target of the cannons.

"Sir, one of our patrols!" That was the musketeer who had risked a look behind the closed gate of the fortress.

"Open the gate!" someone yelled desperately from the other side, a voice Aramis thought to be familiar. "It's us, open the gates!"

The general hesitated for another split second, but eventually he made his way over to the gate and inspected what was behind it.

"Open the gates!" Suard lowered his head towards the musketeer standing at the entrance. He whirled around and made a wide gesture. "Prepare the medic's tent."

The gate was soon opened and three men stumbled through. Aramis instinctively stepped forward to offer a helping hand, and he could feel Athos by his side.

The first face he recognized was Arthur. It was stained with dirt and blood, and he was bathed in sweat. There was a larger flesh wound on the side of his face, open flesh on his jaw where once was his beard. The cadet Daniel was there too, looking as if he had just seen a ghost, and the front of his uniform was stained with fresh blood. Aramis could not yet determine where it came from. The most horrifying sight however was the limp figure between them, the head lolling on its chest, being supported by the musketeers from both sides.

With his heart dropping in fear, Aramis recognized Gino.

"Bring him in the tent, now!" Aramis ordered immediately, almost automatically, and made some hectic gestures towards the tent. Daniel complied and took all of Gino's weight, while Arthur stayed where he was and rested his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath.

Through all the fog and shock in his brain, Aramis tried to recall all the information from the morning until he remembered the names of the men he had put on the patrol. Gino had replaced Philippe and himself, but there were still three others. Arthur, Daniel...and Porthos.

His head snapped to the side as his eyes searched the entrance of the fort for any sign of his friend. Athos next to him seemed to have come to a similar conclusion.

"You were four," Athos assessed calmly, but with hidden panic in his voice. He looked straight at Arthur. "Where's Porthos?"

Arthur stared at him, lifting his shoulders in dismay. "Unknown."

* * *

_To Jmp: Thank you for your review! And I hope that the next chapters will give you a clearer impression of the new General! :)  
To Laureleaf: Thank you for your nice words! Yes, all three of them are going to have a difficult time with the General, for reasons that are yet to come. Thank you for your review, I so love to hear your thoughts!_


	13. The Butcher of La Rochelle

_Warning: Descriptions of field medicine ahead. _

**XIII. The Butcher of La Rochelle**

Athos felt a bit paralyzed. He could see his own shock and disbelief mirrored on Aramis' face, and his friend looked as if he wasn't sure whether to yell at someone or break something.

Athos noticed the strange look the marksman was giving Suard, who was still standing near the gate, so he decided to step in first.

"Aramis, you should go see after Gino." He gently grabbed his friend by the shoulder and carefully turned him towards the medic's tent.

Aramis opened his mouth, but the sudden scream that reached them out of the medic's tent seemed to change his mind. He cast one last glance towards Suard and just gently patted Athos' uninjured arm.

"Please deal with this," the marksman murmured and limped towards the tent.

Athos ran a hand over his face, trying to gather his thoughts without showing his unease to the musketeers surrounding him. He noticed his own rapid breathing, and the pounding in his head grew even heavier as he and Arthur moved closer to General Suard.

Suard finished whatever he was doing at the gate and finally granted Arthur and Athos all of his attention. He laid a hand on his weapons belt and stared at them expectantly. "Report!"

Arthur exchanged a quick look with Athos. Apart from the open and bleeding wound on his jaw, Arthur seemed unharmed, but there was an expression in his eyes Athos had never seen before. Arthur was an experienced musketeer, had been serving in the regiment since its foundation, but Athos had never before seen a look of terror in his eyes.

"Our patrol had passed Cévry, sir. Porthos suggested searching the village for supplies, and so we did. There had been no sign of English troops for the entire area." He nervously shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

"How many men attacked you?" Suard asked firmly.

Arthur looked straight ahead, his gaze getting lost in the distance. "I don't know."

Suard looked surprised. "Are there still English soldiers on the route you patrolled?"

Arthur's jaw was clenched tightly, and the blood continued to run down his neck. "Unknown, sir."

"Well, that's one 'unknown' too many, soldier." Suard scowled. "Did this _investigation_ lead to any positive results?"

Arthur stood tall, and folded his hands behind his back. "Sir, Cévry fell victim to the cannons. Most of the houses are destroyed and can no longer be used as a hideout. However, it indicated that some of the English ships have moved, and are now anchored at the western side of this island."

Athos' attention snapped towards Arthur, and he diverted his gaze from the general to look at his fellow musketeer. "Wait, what exactly happened? Did the cannons fire out of nowhere?"

Arthur lifted his shoulders. "There were signs of English activities south of the village. We retreated to Cévry before they would notice us, or so we thought. As we searched the houses, it all happened so quickly. One moment we were gathering supplies, and the very next, everything around us suddenly…" He was breathing rapidly and put a hand on his throat as if he had trouble getting the air in. "…tiny pieces everywhere and I…"

Athos put a calming hand on the musketeer's forearm. "Slow down. Take it easy." He pulled the can of water he kept at his belt and poured a little bit of the cool liquid over Arthur's face.

He was well aware of the general narrowing his eyes and eyeing the two of them impatiently, but he acted as if he didn't notice.

Arthur eventually did as Athos suggested and took a deep breath, his face distorted with a grimace as it jarred the open wound on his face. "We were separated. I lost sight of Porthos during the rain of cannon balls. Everything around us suddenly seemed to explode, and we could hear English soldiers approaching the village, ready to attack us as soon as the cannons would stop." He leaned forward, lowering his gaze as he addressed the next subject. "Gino was injured when he tried to get to Porthos." Now, Arthur's voice was shaking audibly. "The damn house exploded right in front of him. So we grabbed him and got the hell out of there. The place is probably swarmed with English soldiers by now."

Athos barely managed to keep an indifferent expression. "And Porthos?"

Arthur's eyes locked on Athos, and a mixture of panic and sorrow reflected in his eyes. "I don't know. He could be out there, lost during all the chaos and destruction. But we can't be certain."

General Suard, who had been watching the two of them with a silent scowl, raised his voice again. "Then it seems it was all for nothing. We lost Cévry, we lost a musketeer and might still lose our medic." His voice turned bitter at the mention of Gino. "I will have to reevaluate our next steps. Athos, I want to see you in the commander's tent in two hours. You too, Arthur. And bring Aramis with you. It's time that the tides turn." He finished his little speech with a growl and turned around.

Athos quickly stepped forward before Suard could walk away. "Sir, I'm asking permission to form a search group for Porthos."

Suard didn't even look up. "Denied."

The musketeer didn't show any emotional reaction, instead he stepped into the general's path. "I don't understand." He did understand. However, he did not accept it.

Suard sighed and looked up. He didn't look angry; he looked tired. And if Athos didn't misinterpret it, there was a hint of compassion on his face. "Look, Athos, I know that Porthos is your friend, but as I pointed out before, we cannot risk the lives of many for the sake of one. If he is alive, he will find his way back to us. If not, he's presumed dead. Don't make it too complicated."

Athos' eyes widened in disbelief. "Sir, with all due respect, do you know how valuable Porthos is? What he contributes to this regiment?"

Suard raised an eyebrow. "I have heard that most of the other men don't trust him."

Athos suppressed an angry hiss and straightened up abruptly, which resulted in a painful bolt shooting through his entire arm and shoulder. "Some of them have a problem with the color of his skin. However, you will not find one musketeer here that knows how the others think and feel better than Porthos."

Suard hesitated, but a strange expression crossed his face. "He had been told not to search Cévry for supplies. I made myself very clear the last time we spoke."

Arthur made an unsteady step forward. "Sir, he did what he thought would be best for the muske…"

"He rejected a direct order!" Suard cut in loudly, and his eye was twitching with anger. Athos stayed calm and composed, and made sure to show his superior that these kind of emotional outbreaks had no effect on him. The general ran a hand over his face and tried to gather himself. "If captured, would he ever tell the English any information?"

Athos gritted his teeth. "Porthos would rather die than betray France."

Suard tilted his head. "Then I have nothing to worry about." He made a dismissive gesture. "Except for all of this, of course."

Giving no time for more arguments, he disappeared into the commander's tent, leaving Athos and Arthur frozen on the spot, rooted by disbelief and suppressed anger.

* * *

The first thing Porthos noticed was his own shallow breathing. It droned through his head loudly, as if all other noises were damped out and far, far away. Slowly, he regained one sense after the other.

He could feel the dirt under his face, he felt his sweat-bathed hair sticking to his head. There was a dull, slightly painful sensation in his right side. He could smell sweat and gunpowder, as well as a bit of…was that smoke? He groaned and tried to bring a hand to his face, only to find out that his wrists were tightly secured behind his back.

Muffled voices reached his ears, as well as the soft brushing of waves against wet stone. Slowly but surely, he dared to open his eyes, despite the feeling that heavy weights were trying to hold his lids down. He was laying face first in the dirt, and with his injured eye, he was able to make out the blurred outlines of two other men sitting around him, their hands bound to wooden stakes.

Porthos blinked in confusion and continued to struggle against the ropes around his wrists.

"Don't bother," one of the other prisoners chipped in, his voice high and sharp. "You wouldn't get very far."

Porthos just growled as an answer and thrust himself on his other side to face the two men, the pillar he was bound to didn't bend one bit.

"Porthos," the other figure greeted him and nodded his head. "Are you alright?"

Relief and dismay both flooded through Porthos' veins as he recognized the voice, and after his vision finally cleared, he eventually laid eyes on a muddy, leather pauldron and wet strands of hair.

"Mathis." Porthos' greeting was short, but the relief of discovering that the lost musketeer was alive was evident in his voice. "Knew you weren't dead." He coughed. "Been better."

He now quickly turned his head and soaked in every detail of his environment. He and the other prisoners were shackled to wooden stakes in the sand of the beach. To his right, there were a handful of boats floating in the shallow waters. It seemed that he was being held captive in the English camp at Saint-Blanceau. The only question left was whether he would face the English general, or Buckingham himself.

It was a question that was surprisingly answered within the next minute. He heard a warning hiss from Mathis and he instinctively straightened up as much as possible. Two men were approaching, and neither of them was Buckingham.

One of the men was short, wearing simple, linen clothes but a very pompous hat. The glasses he wore were crooked and dirty, and all in all he had the appearance of a scholar. Or a scribe. The profession of his comrade on the other hand was clear. The man was about Athos' height, and approximately Treville's age. His grey-streaked hair was tied carelessly at his neck, but his beard was neatly trimmed. He wore heavy leather armor, and the cloak he wore around his shoulders underlined the rank Porthos guessed.

He had never seen the English general, except for the few seconds he battled him at Saint-Blanceau. But the stories that surrounded this man were known among the French soldiers, and most of them involved the event that had earned him the name of ' the Butcher of La Rochelle'. The battles that had started in the city earlier this year had nothing to do with it.

Porthos vaguely remembered the story. La Rochelle has always been the stronghold of the Huguenot resistance, and in one of his many attempts to suppress the rebellion, the King had ordered a blockade of the city five years ago. During that time, a few French captains had managed to use the distraction to their advantage and had found a way into the city, where they had run straight into the trap set by this English general, who had been sent to support the Huguenot rebellion. All that was known was that the men's bodies had been found in an alley near the newly built fort, grotesquely slaughtered and with the English general's flag decorating the scene.

His banner soon became a reminder of everything this man was capable of doing, or at least, what was told about him.

How much of this story was true, Porthos did not know. But he always made sure not to be fooled by another man's appearance. 'Lord Eadmund' radiated everything a French soldier would expect after having heard the story of 'the Butcher of La Rochelle:' menace, cruelty, coldness and infinite loyalty to the English cause. Porthos had played enough card games in his life to see through a man's bluff. However, he wasn't sure about this one.

The English general inspected his prisoners shortly, his dark eyes wandering over every single one of them. Then he started speaking. Porthos could not understand the language, but the man's voice was raw and scratchy, with an unusual high pitch in it for a man of his age.

The scholarly-looking individual by his side waited until his superior was finished, and then began translating with such a heavy accent that Porthos had trouble understanding the correct words.

"You stand in front of Lord Eadmund, general in command of this regiment. He wants to know your name, musketeer."

Porthos cursed internally. The English general seemingly knew that he was a musketeer, so Porthos was at disadvantage. He chose his next words not as carefully as he should.

"Since I doubt that 'Lord Eadmund' is your full name, I deny you my answer."

The scribe looked a little irritated, but he translated. Lord Eadmund showed no visible reaction. He merely said a few sentences straight into Porthos face, sounding almost bored as he did so.

Porthos just stared at him, his eyes narrowed as he tried to read his opponent's thoughts.

"If you tell us the number of the musketeers, the contribution of your camp and everything you know about the citadel, the general offers you a more comfortable stay at this camp."

"Well, tell him," Porthos hissed spitefully. "If he wants to know more, he is very welcome to try to find out. But as far as it concerns me, there is nothing to say."

Lord Eadmund narrowed his eyes as his translator relayed Porthos' words to him. It was a look Porthos could not place. Something between irritation and self-confidence. His lips formed a devilish smile, and an arrogant expression crossed his face for a split second, before he opened his mouth again and answered. The language, Porthos could not understand, but he got the message without needing the scholar's translation.

"I just want to make myself clear," the translator said while the English general bent down in front of his prisoners. "Whether you get out of here alive is up to you. But escaping, or being released back to your commanding officers, are not among the options available."

Porthos' eyes locked on Lord Eadmund, facing him with all the courage he had left.

"I don't think that's up to you to decide."

* * *

"Athos!" Aramis' call managed to reach through Athos' red curtain of anger and pull him out of his frozen state. The marksman's voice rang out of the medic's tent, and panic was so evident that Athos managed to put all other thoughts aside for a moment.

"Come," he said to Arthur, who was still frozen in shock at Suard's reaction, and he pulled the musketeer with him by the arm and into the medic's tent, where he roughly shoved him onto a chair.

"Aramis will take a look at you later," he explained to a confused and slightly angry Arthur, and luckily, the man showed no resistance. Without waiting for further reactions, Athos turned on his heel and faced the grotesque and bloody scene in his back.

Daniel and Aramis had laid Gino down on the table, but the medic was resisting, clearly unaware of his surroundings and still thinking he had to protect his life. Aramis and the cadet were holding him down with all the strength they could muster.

"I cannot help him if I have to restrain him," Aramis shouted in desperation. "Athos!"

The swordsman understood immediately and took a place by Gino's head, leaning on the medic's chest with his right arm and all the force he had. In the meantime, Aramis limped towards the corner where Gino kept his medical supplies, and he grabbed the entire bag and threw it on the table next to his patient.

"Shit, shit…," the marksman muttered under his breath and ran a bloody hand through his hair. "What the hell am I supposed to do?" He was talking more to himself than to anyone else, but Athos felt the need to intervene.

His injured, shaking arm reached out to his comrade and laid a hand on his shoulder. "Aramis, focus."

Aramis' eyes found Athos and he held eye-contact for solid five seconds, before he seemed to gather himself.

"Alright, Daniel, I need to know exactly what happened." Aramis took a pair of scissors out of the bag and started to cut Gino's shirt open.

The cadet was white as a sheet and was staring at Gino as if he hadn't heard Aramis' request.

"Daniel," Athos repeated a little bit louder and more forcefully. The cadet jerked in surprise when Athos' voice reached him. "What exactly happened?"

"We…Gino tried to go after Porthos and…there was … there…," Daniel swallowed hard and took a deep breath to calm his shaking voice.

"The cannons tore the house to shreds," Arthur chipped in calmly from his place by the entrance. "Gino was standing right in front of it when it happened. The blast threw him backwards, where he landed on Daniel."

Athos could see that Aramis bit down a remark. This information was not as helpful as his friend had hoped. However, the wounds that decorated the medic's body were quite self-explanatory.

As soon as Aramis had cut away the fabric of the shirt, they got a better look at the extent of the wounds. The medic's entire chest was bloody.

"Cloth," Aramis demanded. Luckily Daniel heard him this time and handed him the materials. The marksman used it to wipe away as much of the blood as possible. He gritted his teeth.

"There are wooden splinters still embedded in these wounds," he explained to Athos. "I have to get them out. But first…," his hands now hovered over Gino's leg. He didn't explain any further what he was intending to do. Instead, he ripped the boot off, a little too forcefully, and Gino, who barely seemed to be aware of his surroundings, screamed in agony.

Aramis, with an apologetic expression on his face, furrowed his brow and he gently pushed away the fabric of the clothing and revealed a mess of blood and bones. Athos was not squeamish in any way, but he could feel the bile rising in his throat and had to swallow frantically in order to keep his focus. Daniel was not as composed, and he let go of Gino and hastily left the tent. Athos could hear him losing the battle against the nausea outside.

Aramis released a stuttering breath, and immediately turned back towards the medic's chest. "First things first," he murmured under his breath and started the procedure of removing the wooden splinters in the open cuts and wounds.

Athos quickly sent a look towards Gino, but the medic seemed barely conscious. Even in this state, with the sweat plastering his hair to his forehead and his face scrunched with pain, he managed to look strict and annoyed.

The swordsman quickly reverted his gaze towards what Aramis was doing, and couldn't help but respect how calm and steady the marksman's hands were as they quickly but carefully treated the numerous wounds. It was an ugly procedure, and after a while, Athos couldn't determine whether the sticky substance underneath his hands was blood, sweat or tears. But he kept his hold on Gino's shoulders, while using his own injured arm to slowly treat the burns all over the medic's face. He knew if they went untreated, the risk of infection was very high.

Once the shards were removed and the cuts treated, Aramis again moved towards the leg and hesitated. He paled at the sight of the injury, and his hands were frozen in indecision.

"Just keep your focus," Athos admonished, with a firm but kindly tone in his voice.

"Focus?" Aramis' voice was filled with honest fear. "Athos, I have no idea what I am doing here."

But nevertheless, Aramis started treating the leg. And Athos really did not want to trade places. He assisted, he held Gino down whenever he regained enough consciousness to resist, but he felt a certain relief that he did not have to dig in this mess of open, bleeding flesh, bones and muscle. Athos had no idea what Aramis was doing, but after an excruciating two hours of a screaming Gino, a cursing Aramis and a nervous Athos, Aramis finally finished the procedure with wrapping the leg in white bandages.

"I need to stay here and check on him regularly," Aramis explained tiredly and gathered the medical supplies he had used.

Athos' gaze was still locked on the patient in front of him. His own arm was burning, and the dull pounding in his head had returned too. He had to admit, he felt utterly exhausted. But more importantly, he was angry.

"Athos?" Aramis asked worriedly.

"Sending our only medic on a mission, one I told him was risky. Dangerous. Now he refuses to let me search for Porthos." Athos lowered his voice when he realized how loud he was expressing his anger. "It's like we're nothing but pawns on a chessboard for them."

Aramis scowled. "I believe that's exactly what we are." But he put a hand on Athos shoulder and squeezed it reassuringly. "Seems like it's up to the three of us to make sure we musketeers somehow survive this island."

Athos' eyes were devoid of any emotion. "The three of us?" His own voice sounded hollow, distant.

The absence of Porthos was more noticeable than ever, and his possible fate shook both musketeers to the core, holding their hearts in ice-cold fear.

Aramis swallowed hard. "Unless I see his body, Porthos is alive. And he will find his way back to us." He sank down on the chair next to Gino, and ran a blood-stained hand through his hair. "Get some rest, Athos, while we still can. You're injured, and there's really not enough space in here to perform another medical procedure like this."

"Says the one who can't use his leg," Athos retorted grimly, but he sighed.

"I will look after Arthur, and I'm going to get some rest watching Gino." Aramis glared at him, with an unusually stern expression. The worry on his face was evident. "I mean it, Athos."

"I'll do my best to keep the work off your shoulders," Athos said, in a very weak attempt to lighten the mood, and he left the tent with a nod to his friend. But Aramis was right. If it was the general's agenda to throw musketeers into certain death just to keep the English occupied, it was up to them to protect the musketeer regiment from this kind of strategy. Nobody else was going to take their place.

* * *

_To Jmp: Thank you for your nice words, I'm very happy to hear you're enjoying it! And I hope this chapter answered some questions about Porthos' whereabouts. Thank you for your review! :)_

_To Laureleaf: Thank you, that's very kind. And the way you describe Suard matches with the image in my head. Haha yes, as much as I love writing fight scenes, sieges like this are not just about the fight scenes. Which doesn't mean there aren't any more fight scenes to come :) Thank you for reading and for leaving the review!_


	14. Shadows, Greys and Evil Ways

**XIV. Shadows, Greys and Evil Ways**

It had been a week and a half since Cevry had been destroyed and Porthos had gone missing. Though many of the men were saying that time was moving much too slowly, Aramis could not agree. Every minute he felt was speeding past and he was not doing enough. It was driving him insane.

He had managed to keep Gino alive so far. It was not looking good, and the medic was barely holding on, but since Aramis hadn't expected him to make it this far, he considered it a win. For the first three days, he had barely slept, as he had always kept a watchful eye on Gino. Then Athos had stepped in, and by now, Aramis was back to his usual routine, at least as far as his leg allowed him. Still, he was now in charge of the medic's tent and all the responsibilities that came with it, and it terrified him more than he was willing to admit. He had far less medical training than Gino.

Over the course of the past eleven days, he had needed to stop Athos from going out alone to look for Porthos twice, and Athos had stopped Aramis from doing the same thing three times. They kept each other grounded, but they could feel the situation sliding out of their hands with every minute that passed by.

Though Suard had declared Porthos dead, something inside Aramis told him that his friend was alive. But he knew that if he could not look for him soon, or if there was no sign of him, the thought might fade. The general had asked about Gino's condition only once during the week, and it was immediately after Aramis, with Athos' support, had finished the tiring and painful procedure of fixing the leg as much as possible, which had resulted in both of them missing their meeting with the general. Aramis had never heard a man ask about someone's condition in such a rude and uninterested manner, but whatever history there was between Suard and Gino, Aramis knew better than to address it now.

The musketeers had successfully secured the area up to the ruins of Cévry and they were keeping the English troops at a secure distance for now. But doubt was growing about Suard's ability to command the regiment. There had been another, shorter, battle with the English forces five days ago, which had cost the lives of two more musketeer cadets. Athos had assured Aramis that there was nothing he would have been able to do for them, but the loss still made the marksman's heart ache.

Athos was yet another one of Aramis' many concerns. Suard was using his friend as a right hand, which meant he loaded all of the work and responsibility straight onto Athos' shoulders. Athos had stated multiple times that he was coping well, but Aramis wasn't blind. The swordsman's eyes were surrounded by dark shadows, and the color he had lost during the battle of Cévry still hadn't returned to his face. Aramis had asked to have a look at Athos' arm three days ago, but his friend had been too busy organizing and leading patrols to comply with Aramis' request.

They had had one bit of good luck in the past few weeks however. They had discovered a single, wooden boat, barely large enough for one person, and with it they had established a line of communication between their little fortress and the citadel. Suard was able to report and receive orders directly from Decart. Athos and Aramis also could continue to send reports to Treville as they had done since arriving on the island. The musketeer messenger, usually it was the cadet Henri, chosen because of his short height and small stature, made sure the reports were brought to the citadel where Decart, according to the information Suard had received, had established a line of communication and transport with the authorities on the mainland.

Aramis was now sitting against one of the wooden pillars of the fortress' walls, his injured leg sprawled in front of him. He had successfully avoided infection so far, but he still was limping badly, even though superficially, the wound appeared to be healing. He pulled his hat over his face, seemingly enjoying the first couple of minutes of rest he had had this day. But the truth was, ever since Porthos had disappeared, he hadn't experienced a moment of calm. He was restless, and that would not change until he had found Porthos. No matter what he would find. He and Athos had sworn an oath a few evenings back, when they had a chance to exchange some news, that they would not leave this island unless they knew of Porthos' fate. They knew that their friend would have done the very same.

"The calmness is unsettling." Aramis attention suddenly snapped towards the voice he heard, and he quickly identified the musketeers Guillaume and Eric, sitting on the ground near the supplies and organizing the portion for the civilians, the duty to which Athos had assigned them. By the looks of it, they hadn't noticed Aramis' presence.

"I know what you mean," Eric replied nervously, his voice low as if he was scared someone in particular would listen. "I can almost feel Buckingham's blade at my throat."

"I suspect Buckingham is the least of our concerns," Guillaume retorted. "But what shall we do should they decide to besiege this fortress?"

Eric, by the sound of it, shattered one of the boxes containing the fruit. "We fight 'em off, of course," he replied smoothly. "And I, with certainty, believe we are able to do so. However, it is more likely we will starve first."

Guillaume huffed. "That's the purpose of many sieges, you know."

Eric ignored him. "And should any of us sustain an injury, well, our medic is in no condition to help us, because a damn house blew up to his face. On a mission Athos assigned him to."

"The general sent him there to replace the wounded," Guillaume cut in. "That was none of Athos' doing. Athos and Aramis would not have been so foolish."

"They are not our commanding officers," Guillaume continued mildly. "but after what happened to Porthos, I think the two of them are just trying to keep it together. You can see it with every move they make. Not only are they as exhausted as we are, but they are doubting the general as much as we are." He made a short pause. "You should have seen them after the procedure on Gino. The way they looked at Suard."

Eric snorted. "I never thought I'd say this, but I really miss the captain. He would know what to do."

"Aramis!"

Startled, Aramis jerked upright, the sudden motion making his leg twitch with pain. He readjusted his hat and looked around for whoever had shouted his name. Guillaume and Eric too suddenly stopped talking, as soon as they laid eyes on Aramis. They probably wondered what Aramis had heard and what not. But for now, he had different matters to attend to. He spotted Arthur running towards him, his breath hitching as if he had just run a marathon. His face was cleanly shaven, and after Aramis had treated the gaping wound on his jaw, he had been advised to keep it that way. He was going to have a large scar on his jaw, despite Aramis' best efforts of needlework to avoid it. He came to a slithering halt in front of the marksman, and offered him a helping hand.

Aramis, without comment, accepted it gratefully and was pulled to his feet. "What is it?" he queried as he hurried to keep up with the other musketeer. He knew Arthur, along with Athos and three cadets, had been part of a patrol organized to scout along the northern shore.

"Athos and I, we ran into a man and his son, hiding near the cliffs a few lengths east of here. We believe the boy is sick, and we don't want to bring him in here…"

"…in case he infects the entire camp," Aramis concluded and nodded as he limped next to Arthur. They passed the gate, and Aramis briefly stopped and grasped the cadet Frederic by the arm. "Get the general, tell him to meet us outside."

"Near the cliffs," Arthur added helpfully and Frederic grudgingly saluted. "Yes, sir."

Aramis just raised an eyebrow but did not waste any more time. "What's the matter with him?"

Arthur managed a tense grin. "Had a lecture from Athos and Théo, so I heard."

Aramis shook his head and kept following his comrade along the walls and towards the cliffs. "That would explain it."

It didn't take them long to reach the others, though Aramis' injured leg was preventing him from running. He soon spotted Athos, calmly leaning against a rock, exhaustion written all over his face, which he didn't even try to hide. But he kept a watchful gaze on the two strangers, a man in his forties and a boy, maybe thirteen or fourteen years old. They were pleading with the cadets, who were arguing loudly.

"Please, just stay, Monsieur!" one of the cadets said, but the uncertainty in his voice had little to no effect on the stranger.

"I see no sense in it," the stranger insisted, facing the cadets bravely.

"It's a precaution," Athos cut in coolly, radiating a whole different form of authority than the cadets. "We cannot risk it."

"I've been with him for weeks," the man explained, his voice shaking as he was trying to hold back tears of desperation. "And I'm not infected."

"You need to understand that our medic will have to decide it." In that exact moment, Athos laid eyes on Arthur and Aramis approaching. He tilted his head as a greeting. "Thank you for coming." He made a gesture towards the two strangers, ready to explain, but Aramis shook his head.

"Arthur filled me in," he explained shortly before his gaze wandered towards the boy and the cadet that was with him.

The boy's neck was covered in an unhealthy, swollen mass and red, open flesh. He had red circles under his eyes, and his face was pale and bathed in sweat, possibly from a fever. It seemed oddly familiar, and within seconds, all alarm bells rang in Aramis' head.

"Get away from him!" Aramis yelled, his eyes wide open. The cadet shrank back immediately. Aramis kept up a placating hand, and gestured the other musketeers, including Athos, to take a few more steps back.

"I need you to keep your distance, do you understand me?" Aramis said with enough kindness in his voice hopefully to cover his own horror. He knelt down, a few lengths in front of the boy. "We do not wish to harm you, but I need you to promise me that you will not come any closer, do you understand?"

The boy's eyes were wide open, but he nodded and folded his arms behind his back. "I promise, Monsieur." His voice was shaking with fear.

"What's your name?" Aramis asked, cautious not to show his own concern.

"Jacques," the boy answered, and it was barely more than a whisper.

Aramis placed a hand on his chest. "Jacques, my name is Aramis. How long have you had the symptoms?"

It was his father who stepped in first. "The neck has been like this for a few weeks. The fever has started a week ago."

Aramis nodded, and unsteadily stood up to join Athos near his place by the rock. He felt Arthur following him closely.

Athos just shot him an expectant look, raising a questioning eyebrow. "And?"

"Mal du Roi," Aramis explained quietly, running a hand over his untended beard. "As far as Parisian doctors suggest, it isn't necessarily contagious, however, there is no proof it is not. It could also be a form of consumption. We have to…"

"What's going on here?" Suard's voice interrupted all of them and Athos, Aramis and Arthur turned around to bow their heads as a greeting. The general did not wear his armor, but only linen pants and a white shirt, with a cloak wrapped around his shoulders. His hand was constantly resting on his pistol, and he was clearly nervous being out in the open without proper protection.

"Sir, we rescued two more civilians," Athos explained shortly. "The boy is sick; we are evaluating the risk of taking him to the fortress."

Suard's gaze wandered from Athos over Aramis to the boy and then back to Aramis. "And?"

"We are not sure whether it is a sickness that could spread to the others," Aramis did not know how else to say it.

Suard narrowed his eyes. "Well, can you be sure?"

Aramis lifted his shoulders and raised his hands in defeat. "Not right now, not like this."

The general sighed and ran a hand over his face, the other hand still resting on the pistol. He turned towards the man, who had thrown all sense of caution away and had put a calming hand on Jacques' shoulder.

"Monsieur, my apologies. But we are unable to bring you with us to the camp. The risk for my regiment is too high."

Aramis could see his own thoughts mirrored on Athos' face, and the swordsman slowly approached his superior and lowered his voice. "Sir, may I speak to you in private?"

Suard eyed Athos, and Aramis who was lined up behind him, skeptically, but eventually he nodded and gestured them to follow him. He came to a halt near a tall tree, in safe cover, so it seemed.

"What is it, Athos?"

"I don't think we can allow ourselves to leave anyone to their fate on this island," Athos declared, his eyes resting calmly on the general, but Aramis could see that his friend was more nervous than he was permitting himself to show.

Before Suard could respond in any way, Aramis came to his friend's aid.

"At least let us set up a quarantine camp, outside of the fortress if necessary. We all know the commander won't let them into the citadel, so we owe it to them to provide at least some sort of protection."

The general raised an eyebrow. "And what makes you think we have the resources or the time for this?" He looked deadly serious. "I admire your compassion, musketeers, but as I've said before, we cannot share what we need the most. It is our duty to prevail here, and we cannot spare the men for a quarantine camp."

Suard already wanted to turn away, thinking the matter has been dealt with, but Athos wasn't finished yet.

"I am certain that it is in the interest of the king that we treat his civilians right and fairly." Athos' tone was respectful, but sharp. "He gains nothing if he keeps this island but has to justify himself for letting his own people die."

"The king has no influence here," Suard hissed suddenly, before he seemed to reconsider the company he was in. He cleared his throat, and Aramis was sure he almost looked embarrassed. "What I am saying is that we have to put our own needs before anyone else's if we want to keep this island in French hands," he said.

Athos folded his arms in front of his chest, and he made a step forward, his face inscrutable. "Sir, with all due respect, that's not the musketeers way."

"But it is my way," Suard countered confidently, with a tone that tolerated no further input.

"At least let me give them something to help with the fever," Aramis said, trying his best to hide his discontent about the general's decision.

Suard bit his lip, his own fingers frozen in indecision on the hilt of his sword, and eventually, he nodded. "Fine. But only the resources we can afford to spare." He gave Athos a sharp look. "This is my last word." With that, he headed back to the camp, without wasting one more second on the boy and his father.

Aramis and Athos exchanged a meaningful look before they rejoined the cadets and Arthur. The older musketeer gently patted Athos' uninjured arm and met Aramis' eyes.

"I've heard it; I'll take care of it. You two better get back to camp."

Aramis waited for Athos' protest, but it never came, so he just nodded gratefully and the two of them returned back to camp.

* * *

Back at the fortress, Aramis immediately saw the opportunity and grabbed Athos by the arm to drag him with him to the medic's tent. His friend reluctantly let him do so, and once inside, he pushed Athos onto a chair.

"You need to rest," Aramis decided and just raised a hand when he could hear Athos' take in the breath to protest. "Stay here."

He limped outside, and grabbed a bowl of the broth Guillaume had made earlier that day. It wasn't hot anymore, but it was at least warm and should still be enjoyable. He limped back into the tent, the numb pain exploding in his leg as a reaction to his own exhaustion.

"Eat!" Aramis shoved the bowl into Athos' hands before he himself collapsed onto another the chair. "I don't want to make it an order, considering I have the medical authority at the moment." He cast a worried glance towards Gino, who was sleeping uneasily in the cot near the entrance.

Athos did not say anything, but eventually began to eat.

The gap left by Porthos' absence was noticeable. With his loudness and cheer missing, Athos tended to be more silent than usual, and Aramis was sure he himself hadn't smiled one time since their friend had disappeared. Right now, he felt like the fact that Athos was still here was the only thing keeping him grounded. Keeping him sane.

"How is Gino doing?" Athos had decided to break the uncomfortable silence.

Aramis sighed and cast a worried glance towards the sleeping medic. "He is alive. But truth is, he could still lose his leg, and if the wounds on his chest reopen or, God forbid, get infected, I don't think I can do anything."

Athos looked sympathetic. "I know you are doing your best. If there is anything you need, let me know."

Aramis shot him a grateful look. "You know, I have my experience with musket wounds, stab wounds, anything like that. I know how to stitch and how to fight off infection. But all this?" He made a wide gesture. "My skills are limited. And if we continue to sit this out in this fortress, it's only going to get worse."

Athos swallowed another spoonful of the broth. "So far, we have succeeded." The lack of emotion in his voice contradicted the optimism of his words.

Aramis lowered his head and stared at the blood-soaked ground. He could see his leg trembling with exhaustion and he just took a deep breath to calm himself. "Yes. But at what cost?"

The missing presence of Porthos once again hung unspoken of in the air between them, but Athos, much to Aramis' content, emptied his bowl. "We will find him," he simply replied.

"Yes, we will. I am not leaving here without him, one way or another." Aramis managed a dry chuckle, but he got alarmed when he saw the pained grimace on Athos' face as his friend leaned towards the table to put down the bowl.

Aramis raised an eyebrow. "How is your back?"

"Sore," Athos admitted. Aramis took a deep breath

Athos stubbornly stared straight ahead as his friend examined his back. The skin was slightly swollen, but but it was now a light green color which had replaced the deep purple from a week ago.

"Does it hurt?" Aramis queried.

Athos shrugged. "Only when I move."

Aramis rolled his eyes. "I can give you something for the pain. Other than that, you should try to cool the skin."

The swordsman lifted his arms and pulled the shirt back down. "I'll ask the general for some ice the next time he wants to see me." His voice sounded bitter. "Perhaps he'll be as generous as he was with the poor boy and his father."

Aramis was not as easily distracted. "Try the ocean," he suggested. "It is cold almost the entire year. It should ease the swelling." He made a short pause. "Do you think we should have…you know," he nervously cleared his throat. "…defied the general's order and done what we think is right?"

"Suard would have found out," Athos answered hollowly. "He would have had us punished, or worse, court-martialed." Aramis had to suppress a grin. Only to Athos would the thought of having to face a long and tiring hearing be more intimidating than being physically punished.

"He says he takes our survival as his first concern," Aramis evaluated, "but he doesn't care about any other living soul." He made a short pause. "Did you notice how he reacted to the mention of the king earlier? Doesn't quite leave the impression of a loyal servant of France, don't you think?"

"Indeed. To be honest, I don't know what he is doing," Athos admitted tiredly. "But I feel like if we want to survive this, we need to have him on our side.

* * *

"Porthos!" The urgent voice reached his ears. That, and the sound of over a dozen boots stamping on the wet sand. Porthos' eyes snapped open immediately and he inhaled sharply, only to cough it out shortly after. Despite the late summer heat, the wind on the beach was strong and cold, and he, as well as the other two prisoners, did not cope too well in that weather.

All in all, Porthos had to admit that he had expected worse. Sure, there had been some questioning, and yes, it had resulted in a few more bruises than he was fond of, but none of them had given any information to the English, and the English on the other hand, or Lord Eadmund, to be more specific, didn't seem too eager to find out more. Porthos knew the general was waiting for something, and he would make his move sooner or later, but Porthos hoped that his escape plan would have taken more shape by then.

Mathis, after the arrival of Porthos, had come up with one plan after the other, but Porthos, much to his own regret, had to point out multiple weaknesses in the plans and they had abandoned them, with the approval of the third prisoner. The other prisoner was one of Commander Décart's captains answering to the name of Méchant. Porthos was sure that Athos had spoken about him at least once or twice, but Porthos himself had never met him. Méchant clearly thought himself to be superior, being born in a noble family and all, but he had proved to be a good observer, and, more importantly, he had the advantage of a noble education. Which meant that he was able to understand some English, contrary to Porthos and Mathis. Luckily, Lord Eadmund seemed to be unaware of that, and still used the scribe to translate during the many 'questionings'.

"Porthos, are you awake?" Mathis hissed again and pulled Porthos out of his reverie. Porthos' head snapped to the side to look at his comrade with his good eye. The other one, which had been injured in the village, was still troubling him.

"What is it?"

"He's gathering the men." That was Captain Mechant's calm and emotionless voice to Porthos' blind left side. "Something is happening."

Porthos' turned his head back forward and his eye fell on the two dozen English soldiers lined up near the dunes, with Lord Eadmund pacing in front of them, waving a letter in his right hand and delivering a very stern speech, by the sound of it.

"Does anyone know wha' they're sayin'?" Porthos had to force himself to lower his voice.

"Something about a fortress on the northern shore of Ré Island," Méchant answered tiredly, but with a spark of curiosity. He turned towards Porthos. "Your camp. They are talking about your camp."

Porthos watched how the English soldiers aligned themselves in front of Lord Eadmund. They were all armed to the teeth as they awaited their orders. Fear gripped Porthos' heart as the realization came to him, and Méchant voiced aloud what they were all thinking.

"By the looks of it, I don't think he's planning to negotiate."

* * *

_Note: The 'Mal du Roi', or 'King's Evil', is a disease we know as scrofula, caused by tuberculosis bacteria. By the time (especially in England and France), it was believed that the King or the Queen were able to heal sick citizens by touching them ('Royal Touch'), due to their divine gift.  
_

_Hope everyone is ready for a bit of action again.  
To Jmp: Thank you, I am glad you like it! More about Porthos and Mathis coming soon, first, I fear Aramis and Athos will have plenty do deal with at the fortress. Thank you for sharing your thoughts!  
To Laureleaf: Yes, I think you could say Aramis is a bit overwhelmed with his new duties, and it's going to be stressful in more ways than one. 'Neither general knows what they've triggered in these three' - you basically summed up one of the main themes of the story :-) Thank you for your review!  
_


	15. Like One We Will Stand

**XV. Like One We Will Stand**

Athos' hand carefully folded the piece of paper, completely ignoring that the ink was not dry yet, and he sealed the message neatly. Aramis had been writing the reports for Tréville in the past days, but Athos had insisted that Aramis get some rest and he had taken over. He was careful though not to give Tréville too much detailed information about internal matters. It was uncertain these letters would ever reach their destination, and should they fall into the wrong hands, it could mean their certain doom.

Athos grimaced as a bolt of pain shot through his injured arm, and he made a mental note to ask Aramis for help. He knew better than not to do anything, especially now that he had to be prepared to fight at a moment's notice.

Having finished writing the report, Athos exited the tent where they kept their gunpowder, and handed the letter to the cadet who was responsible for getting the information to the citadel. Athos and Aramis had had a long discussion about whether to tell Suard about these reports or not, and, in the end, they had agreed it would be better not to let anyone else know about it. At least for now.

"Athos, could you help me out with something?" The swordsman turned around to look for the source of the question, and he laid eyes on the musketeer Théo, who looked very worried, to state it lightly.

"What is it?." He narrowed his eyes. "Is there a problem?"

Théo frowned. "You could say so. Follow me."

Without waiting for Athos' response, the musketeer turned around and led his companion to the northern end of the fortress, where it bordered on a small beach and the ocean. Théo did not need to explain the problem, Athos could see it already.

Three of the wooden stakes that were bound together to form the shielding wall were not only loose, but out of place and revealing the calm waters beyond. Another one was missing completely.

"I noticed it this morning," Théo explained. "The General is already informed. He told me to take care of it, I was hoping you would help me."

Athos carefully moved the unsteady stakes, trying to find out just how loose they had become. "The English would not even have to try to infiltrate our camp," he commented, letting out a hissing breath. "How has nobody noticed yet?"

The uneven footsteps from behind announced the arrival of Aramis. He seemed to have just left the medic's tent, and the dark red stain on his hand told them he hadn't been idle. None of them was in a good mood under these circumstances, but Aramis' face looked exceptionally grim. With a tinge of nervousness.

"Gino woke up for more than five minutes," Aramis explained mildly once he noticed Athos' questioning look. His voice sounded numb. "Had some interesting stuff to tell."

Without elaborating further, he skeptically eyed the problematic part of the wall. "When in God's name did that happen?"

Théo shrugged. "I have no idea. It's either due to the weather or someone was careless."

"Or someone did it on purpose," Athos added grimly, voicing the possibility no one wanted to consider.

Aramis nodded. "I see. We should get to the other side, see the whole extent." He sounded distracted, and Athos noticed that, though he participated in the conversation, his mind was clearly elsewhere.

Athos just calmly grabbed Aramis' shoulder and forced his friend to look at him. "What is it?"

Aramis indecisively bit his lip, but eventually shook his head and guided Athos a few steps back, out of Theo's hearing. "Not here, not now," he explained with a low voice, casting nervous glances towards the commander's tent. Athos followed his gaze and concluded that whatever Gino had said concerned the General.

His friend gently squeezed Athos' uninjured arm. "I'll fill you in later."

Athos understood, and he did not question Aramis' decision. He merely nodded and held the stakes in question aside to step through the hole in the wall. It was narrow, but he managed. He offered his friend his uninjured forearm to steady him while Aramis put his good leg through the gap first and squeezed through. Theo remained inside the fortress.

"Any Englishman our height wouldn't even have to try to infiltrate this fortress," Aramis stated worriedly, drawing in a sharp breath.

Athos grunted affirmatively. "If there is a traitor among us…," he hissed but Aramis put a hand up and carefully laid it on Athos' shoulder.

"Now, now, Athos," he admonished. "No need to assume the worst already." But the tone in his voice told Athos that Aramis was not foolish enough to ignore the possibility completely.

"I'll see if I can find any evidence around here," Athos said and turned on his heel, carefully inspecting the sparse grass and sand that led up to the cliffs and down to the shore on the other side. He kept his eyes out for footprints, or anything else that could indicate somebody had deliberately damaged their defenses. He could see a trail of footprints leading to the boat that was calmly floating in the shallow water, but it had to be their own from one of the many times Henri had carried their messages to the citadel.

"How is your arm?" Aramis asked casually, out of nowhere, as he closely eyed the ropes that held the wood together.

"Still attached."

He could almost feel Aramis' eye roll.

"Could be better," Athos admitted, one hand resting on his belt as he continued to scan the ground. Truth was, the two wounds on his arm were refusing to heal properly, and looked inflamed. Fortunately it was his left arm, because he could not use it to fight with anymore.

Aramis shot Athos a worried look, one the swordsman could not see because he had his back turned towards the wall. "Once this is dealt with, you come with me. You're looking rather…ghostly."

Athos raised an eyebrow, but did not turn to look at Aramis. "Ghostly?" he just repeated with a hint of amusement in his voice.

"Yes," Aramis continued, though he was clearly occupied with inspecting the wall. "The paleness doesn't suit your grim face."

"I know that looks are high on your priority list, however, let me assure you they are fairly low on mine," Athos retorted absent-mindedly, and just heard Aramis' amused snort as an answer behind his back. For a short moment, it seemed between them as if the past weeks hadn't happened. As if Porthos hadn't happened.

The short moment of lightness disappeared rather quickly.

"We can reinforce this part with some leftover wood we did not use on the gate. I'll tell Theo and Arthur to bring it here, we should get this done as quickly as possible," Aramis suggested and turned to look at Athos.

The swordsman nodded. "I'll wait here, see if I can find out anything else."

He heard a confirming noise from behind, but didn't bother to turn around and watch Aramis squeeze through the gap once more.

Athos shook his head to dispel some of the dizziness that had crept into his head the past hour. The harsh wind of the past couple of days had eased down to a soft breeze, and it was announcing summer's farewell and the beginning of the colder season of the year.

Athos could hear some voices out of the fortress, but over the course of the past weeks, the noises of everyday routine had died down to a minimum. He was not yet sure whether to take comfort in that or not. The noises had reassured him that they were still alive. He knew that a lot of the men did not see how they were supposed to get out of here, but Athos refused to think that way. Instead, he constantly tried to work out more plans on how to reinforce their position, in the hope that Commander Décart would find a way to chase Buckingham off this island. Athos saw it as his duty, and kept thinking pragmatically instead of letting his own emotions flood his mind.

But he still understood where the other men's desperation was coming from, and yet they all shared a certain pride and stubbornness, and they refused to give the English an easy fight. Athos was still unsure what to think about Suard, mostly from a military point of view, though Aramis had been gracious enough to share his doubts about their commanding officer's integrity. But time would tell, and it was not as if they had a choice here.

A different noise caught Athos' attention. Apart from the soft whisper of the wind and the brushing of the shallow waves against the stone, he heard a dull movement, as if something heavier than a squirrel was stamping in the dirt. He narrowed his eyes as his gaze fell upon the line of trees not too far away from the fortress. He could be mistaken, especially due to the head injury that still troubled him at times, but he was sure he saw a flickering of light. One that was not supposed to be there.

Athos carefully retreated towards the damaged wall, his face turned towards the shore.

"Aramis!" he yelled into the fortress, but his warning got lost under another, very sudden and very loud noise.

"We're under attack!" a voice, unmistakably that of Théo, screamed. Then gunshots erupted and their world was downed in chaos.

* * *

Aramis heard the gunshots, and he immediately spun around to look toward the gate. That's when another salvo of gunshots hit the bound wood that was their gate and sent splinters flying in all directions.

The General emerged from one of the tents, unsheathing his sword with one hand and waving a loaded pistol in the other.

"Musketeers, half of you to the civilians, the other half to me, now!" he shouted over the ongoing noise of gunshots being fired. Aramis could see how the musketeers, scattered all over the fortress, hurried to obey the order, but it was more a muddling mess of screaming civilians and desperate soldiers trying to get to their commanding officer than it was an effective military maneuver. It didn't need a genius to see that Suard's orders were doing nothing to organize a defense. Still, Aramis wondered why the English were targeting the gate without coming closer to the fortress, when a sudden, horrific thought crossed his mind. One that Arthur shouted out aloud.

"Merde, Aramis, the wall, the wall!" the musketeer ran past Aramis and threw him his weapon belt. Aramis caught it with ease and hastily put it on, taking one pistol in each hand in the process.

"What are you doing?" he could hear Suard's voice behind him, but he did not pay much attention and acted as if he hadn't heard him. He had to see if the English knew about the wall.

He limped behind Arthur as fast as he could manage, only to hear fighting noises right from the other side of the wall. His heart dropped, and he hurried up and let Arthur drag him through the hole. His eyes darted around the area, looking for any sign of Athos.

He finally found his friend, who was being held in a choke-hold by a man in an English uniform, and without hesitating a second, Aramis took his aim and fired. The bullet hit the Englishman in the neck, and the man let go of Athos, who plunged his main gauche into the torso, as if to make sure Aramis had killed him.

The marksman meanwhile turned his head, and spotted the English troops coming up from the beach. They must have had taken a huge detour in order to approach from the other side, but the surprise effect was successful. Aramis fired his second pistol at one of the men charging at him, in the hope the General would realize what the English were doing, however, it had most likely gone unheard, and would have made no difference anyway.

Within moments, the English had spotted the weakness in the fortress wall and Athos, Aramis and Arthur, despite their best efforts, could do nothing but watch as they tore down another stake and started to enter the camp. Suard's answer in the form of gunshots followed closely. Aramis just prayed that they would manage a formation to protect everyone.

He sensed Athos' presence next to him, and the two of them simultaneously threw themselves into battle, without hesitating a second. They were both far from their best form, which is why they silently agreed to fight side by side, covering each other's weaknesses. Whenever Athos' left side was the target of an attack, Aramis intervened, and whenever it turned into a fast retreat, Athos made sure to draw the attention on himself so Aramis could limp backwards.

Aramis watched how Arthur took a nasty hit against the head, but before he was able to do anything, Athos came to the musketeer's aid and dealt with the attacker, smashing the hilt of his rapier hard against the soldier's temple. Aramis could see what Athos was trying to accomplish – prisoners. And he cursed, because he had not thought of it sooner. The image of Porthos possibly suffering the same fate burned itself deep into his mind.

Most of the English soldiers had already entered the fortress, and Suard's bellowed orders got lost under the ongoing turmoil of screaming civilians and guns being fired. Aramis' heart clenched with fear at the thought of the children running away from the armed men, and the wounded being exposed to the enemy blades.

He had caught the attention of another English soldier, and he parried the strike with the hilt of his pistol before he lashed out, catching the opponent in the lower chest. The Englishman merely bared his teeth and sent a series of strikes against Aramis' blade. The marksman parried them quickly, but he was forced backwards into a defensive position, exposing his injured leg to the enemy in the process. His opponent spotted the weakness and in an attempt to catch the assailing blade, Aramis swerved to the right. He lost his balance and landed hard on one knee, squeezing his eyes shut for the blow that had to follow, the blow he wouldn't be able to prevent.

But nothing.

"For God's sake, Aramis, this is not the time to take a nap," Athos' unmistakable growl reached his ears and he opened his eyes wide, only to see the Englishman on the ground, with Athos' dagger buried in his chest.

His friend came back to his side, and pulled him to his feet. Athos had retrieved his dagger, but his left arm was pressed tightly against his side. They exchanged a quick look and together they headed into cover behind a large rock. Aramis spotted Arthur around the corner of the fortress' walls, only a few feet away. He was down on one knee, his weapon aimed at another group of English soldiers entering the fortress through the hole.

"What're you waiting for?" Aramis yelled as he reloaded his weapons. "Shoot them!"

"I am trying, but I am seeing double here," Arthur retorted, angrily shaking his head to clear his vision.

Aramis merely threw him one of his own freshly reloaded pistols. "Gives you twice the chance of hitting something," he replied teasingly and fired his own shot. He felt Athos' hand on his shoulder and turned around. Athos' keen eyes were locked on the fortress before he finally diverted his gaze and looked straight at Aramis.

"Aramis, the fortress, we should…" But he did not need to continue.

"I know," the marksman cut in, tilting his head towards the fortress. "Lead the way."

* * *

Athos had passed the initial stage of surprise and desperation at being attacked so suddenly and so openly, and was now being driven by a different reaction – anger. It fueled him from head to toe as he stormed out of cover and headed towards the torn wall that had caused the unfortunate turn of events. The adrenaline running through his veins numbed the pain spreading through his arm.

He grasped the hilt of his sword even tighter as he entered the fortress.

Athos made sure Arthur and Aramis were able to follow him before he turned around and quickly took a second to assess the situation. About two dozen English soldiers were in the camp, and the musketeers, taken by surprise and seemingly without orders, were fighting on too many fronts.

Athos heard Aramis fire his pistol to his right and he heard the hissing bullet as the English replied just in time to avoid getting shot in the head. He kept a firm grip on his sword, but his left arm was completely useless. Though he was able to hold his parrying dagger, his grip was without any strength. One clash and he would lose it, so he only fought one-handed, knowing that Aramis would do his best to protect his left side.

Arthur tried his best to cover their backs, but both Athos and Aramis had more than a few close calls as English soldiers had approached from behind. Arthur did all he could, but the hole that Porthos' absence had torn not only in their minds, but also in their nonverbal bond was noticeable and worse, dangerous.

Aramis' sword cut through the upper chest of an English soldier and he threw him onto Athos' waiting blade. Another figure approached them, and Athos was ready to plunge his sword into the man's torso but he recognized him soon enough and lowered his weapon.

The musketeer Théo sported a deep cut on his cheek, and he was gasping for air as if he had run across the entire island.

Athos anxiously addressed him. "Théo, where's the General?"

"Knocked out by an English bullet," Théo reported breathlessly and blindly stabbed an English soldier behind his back, to prevent him from approaching the commander's tent, where Athos assumed they had taken Suard.

Athos exchanged a quick look with Aramis, who only raised a questioning eyebrow before he crossed swords with an assailing enemy. Athos knew that if they continued fighting like this, this would be their last stand.

"Aramis, take five marksmen and position yourself outside up on the cliffs with a clear sight to both the hole in the wall and the gate." It was a proposal, an idea, but Aramis did not question it. He nodded, finished off his opponent with a precise stab to the chest and clasped his hand around Athos' good arm.

"We'll await your signal."

Athos did not need to give further instructions. "You'll know what to do. Arthur!" and he turned in time to prevent a slightly confused Arthur from being shot in the back. "Arthur, go open the gate as widely as you can manage!"

Arthur threw him a puzzled look. "Why would I…?"

"Trust me," Athos insisted, looking into the musketeer's face to search for a sign of doubt, but Arthur just nodded, and turned on his heel to do as he had been told.

Athos then hurried towards the corner of the fortress, where the civilians had tried to escape, at least those who hadn't found a hiding spot. The English were clearly hesitant to attack them, however as soon as they spotted the musketeers, now in a somewhat military formation, shielding the civilians from the enemy, everybody seemed to forget all sense of morality. Athos could hardly hold it against them. It was easy to forget one's humanity on a battlefield.

The musketeers stood shoulder to shoulder, with Athos' in their middle and the civilians behind their backs, parrying the English swords with a newly found courage. Athos' was sent reeling backwards by a heavy blow from an English soldier, but thanks to their formation, he was covered by Théo and Guillaume until he managed to retake his position.

He shook the hair out of his face to clear his vision and out of the corner of his eye, he saw that Arthur had successfully opened the gate. It had been a risky move, but if the English had wanted to enter the fortress from the front, they could have done so, whether the gate was closed or open.

"Cover me," Athos instructed Guillaume and Théo before he broke formation and ran over to the commander's tent, where Arthur had retreated, knocking another English soldier unconscious as he ran.

"Athos, what on earth are you doing?" Arthur asked sharply, his eyes wide open with terror.

Athos merely grabbed him by the sleeve and pulled him towards one of the tents where they kept their supplies.

"Get one of the gunpowder barrels out, I'll cover you," he said as he spotted an attacker charging towards him.

Arthur inhaled to question Athos' order, but Athos didn't have the time for it as his sword clashed hard against the enemy's steel.

"Now!" It almost sounded like a desperate plea. To his relief, Arthur disappeared into the tent with no more questions, and Athos focused on the duel. The Englishman was short, but very agile. An agility Athos could not match in his current state. He parried a series of strikes and lost his main gauche as one of the blows caught the smaller blade, which had been held uselessly in his weak hand. Athos stepped aside to protect his injured arm, but the Englishman was quick. He lashed out once more and Athos could feel the blade slice through his doublet on his left side. He hissed and stumbled backwards, tempting the opponent to attack once more, but as soon as the English soldier attempted to do so, Athos charged forward and buried his sword deep into the man's exposed shoulder.

Athos pulled the blade out just as Arthur reappeared, rolling the barrel in front of him. Athos put a hand on his bleeding side, but it did not seem to be too deep. He clenched his teeth. He had to keep his focus.

Athos gestured towards the hole in the wall, and he could almost hear the wheels turning inside Arthur's head as he was trying to comprehend what Athos wanted him to do. It took much too long but Arthur eventually nodded, and looked at his comrade with a knowing gleam in his eyes.

They positioned themselves on each side of the hole.

"On three," Athos instructed. "One, two…"

_Three_.

Together, they threw the barrel through the big hole in the wall, with barely enough force so it would not roll all the way down to the water. They immediately turned back and took cover behind the wall.

There was a little delay, and Athos was starting to worry that something had happened to Aramis and the others, or that they had not understood what he wanted them to do, but then he heard the hissing air and the sound of the exploding gunpowder reached his ears. He grinned. Aramis' aim had not abandoned them.

The sudden explosion had the desired effect. The English soldiers were startled and looked for the source, realizing that now, they were enclosed by musketeers on both sides, Athos, Arthur and some cadets near the hole in the wall and the big musketeer formation near the civilians on the other side.

The musketeers used the moment of surprise to their advantage and on Athos' signal, they started to advance in their formation, slowly but surely enclosing the English on one half of the fortress. With the fire of the explosion on the one side and calm and experienced musketeers on the other side, the English started to retreat towards the open gate, clearly not ready yet to give up so easily. They had the musketeers outnumbered after all. What they did not know however was that Athos had marksmen positioned outside the fortress.

As soon as the English forces had reached the gate, a hail of gunshots riddled the ground on which they were standing. Aramis had well understood Athos' intentions. The sudden attacks from unknown muskets was enough to break down what courage the English had left and leave nothing but panic. Some dropped their swords, others just screamed something incomprehensible before they all started to run, back into the forest from whence they had come.

It was a victory. But the past weeks had taught the musketeers enough, and they did not dare to feel victorious yet.


	16. The Breaking Point

**XVI. The Breaking Point**

Lord Eadmund was pacing. His wet boots got stuck in the sand way too often, but he just shook it off and continued walking in circles around his tent. If this attack was successful, Buckingham could use his entire force to storm the citadel and chase the French off this island for good.

He didn't underestimate the musketeers, but after his spies had told him about the weakness in their defenses, he knew that surprising them was the only way to get rid of them. He had known that the musketeers were supported by one of Décart's generals, but so far, he did not see this man as a threat.

Eadmund's eyes wandered towards the wooden pillars where the prisoners were sitting in the sand. He still did not know all their names, but their uniforms already told him a lot. Two of them, the giant and the one who looked like he was twenty years old, at most, were musketeers, members of the French king's elite regiment. The young one answered to the name of Mathis, that's what he had been able to overhear. The other one, he did not know, and the man had stubbornly refused to say anything over the course of the past week. Still, Eadmund could not dismiss the feeling that this man was important. Perhaps even more important than his third prisoner, one of Décart's captains. He too hadn't said a word, but he was a man of French nobility, that was something a blind man could tell.

He knew that Buckingham was busy trying to find a way into the citadel, but it had proven to be more difficult than expected. The Duke's engineer had drowned during the landing at Saint-Blanceau. The cannons they had brought from some of the ships were not as many as they had hoped for, and the damage to the citadel's walls had been mediocre, to state it kindly.

And while the Duke was busy trying to eliminate the French threat under the French Commander, Eadmund was far more intrigued by the challenge the small musketeer regiment was giving him. His regiment had theirs outnumbered 5 to 1, but he already counted about 30 losses – and the musketeers, as far as he knew, only counted half a dozen, at most.

His heart was pounding with nervousness as he finally heard the unmistakable sound of boots trampling the earth, however, it did not sound self-confident and calm. This was no march of victory.

He looked up just as his men appeared running towards the beach, like scared rabbits escaping back to their holes. All of them instantly avoided their commanding officer's look, except for the one person, Captain Harris, the man in charge of the operation. The man was covered in sweat and dirt, the sleeve of his uniform was torn and drenched with blood. He looked like he had just climbed out of hell.

The Captain approached the General, while the rest of the remaining soldiers scattered all over the beach.

The General knew the answer, but he still posed the question.

"The mission?" the General asked coldly.

"Unsuccessful, Sir." Harris' voice was shaking. With fear, if Eadmund was not mistaken. But he couldn't bring himself to pity the man.

Eadmund growled. "You disappointed me, soldier, and you should have a good reason why." He sent a warning glare towards one of the lieutenants who looked as if he wanted to intervene. "You really want to tell me that this unknown French General managed to defeat you after you had them trapped in their own damn hideout?" He was almost yelling now.

"No, no, we are pretty sure we knocked the General out shortly after the battle began." Harris shook his head as if to clear his mind of the images his eyes had just seen. "No, it was the musketeers, Sir. They all seemed to listen to one man, and they regained all of the control we took from them in the beginning of the battle."

"Then why on earth weren't you able to kill every last one of them? You had them outnumbered. You have to give me a very good reason now, soldier."

Harris lowered his gaze. "They forced us into a trap. As soon as we reached the gate, muskets shot at us from behind. Running was the only option we had left, if we wanted to survive."

"Next time," Lord Eadmund hissed, clearly dissatisfied, "next time, I'll lead the operation myself."

He was fuming with anger, and he was not quite sure whether to lecture his soldiers or calmly start all of this anew. He knew that encouraged men fought more bravely than intimidated ones.

"Sir." A man in English uniform whom he had never seen before approached him, carefully as if he feared the General might murder him if he got too close. Behind him, Eadmund could see a boat floating in the shallow waters.

"General, this is for you." He lowered his voice and stretched out a hand with an unsealed letter. "From Paris, I believe. For your eyes only."

Lord Eadmund snatched the letter out of the man's hand, unfolded it and let his eyes soak in every word. Over the course of reading, his mouth started to form a satisfied grin. Perhaps this information could be useful. He lifted his gaze and his eyes came to rest on the three prisoners, observing them with keen eyes.

He had a few new questions for them.

* * *

Athos did not waste a lot of time looking after the fleeing English soldiers. He used all of the adrenaline he had left and ran over to where the civilians were crowded in the corner, his eyes swerving over them to look for any casualties.

"Is everyone unharmed?" he asked loudly, drawing all of their attention. He recognized Lucien, who made an unsteady step forward.

"I believe so…" His eyes were wide open as he laid eyes on two musketeers who had been wounded as they had protected the civilians. They were still alive, but they were bleeding heavily. Luckily, Théo and two other men were already taking care of them. "Thank you."

Athos had to look at Lucien to make sure he hadn't misheard it. Did this ignorant fool just thank him? Athos sighed inwardly. He must've been filled with pure terror.

Athos growled and made a gesture towards the fallen musketeers. "Thank them." He turned towards Marie, the woman who had so fiercely defended them in front of Lucien. "Is anything…?"

"My children!" the panicked voice belonged to another young woman, one who hadn't spoken a word so far. "Where are my children? They were with me before…"

Athos released a stuttering breath, and as the adrenaline began wearing off, the pain exploded in his upper arm. He grimaced, not sure where to press his good hand against – his arm, his side or his head.

"They may have hidden as soon as the English arrived." He tried his best to stay calm and composed, and to not show them his own fear or uncertainty. The woman along with the other civilians, even Lucien, nodded knowingly. "We'll search this place," Lucien declared.

"Arthur, can you join…?" Athos began, but the musketeer cut him off.

"I have it, Athos. You should see the General." With that, he turned on the spot and waved at two other musketeers to help him search.

Athos took a second to gather himself and his eyes hesitantly rested on the commander's tent, where the musketeers apparently had dragged an unconscious Suard. He could think of roughly a hundred things he'd prefer over talking to the General right now, but his sense of duty told him otherwise. At least he had to check whether his commanding officer had regained consciousness.

As he turned to go towards the tent a noise coming from the gates distracted him. Athos looked up and relief flooded through him when he saw the noise came from Aramis and his group of marksmen reentering the fortress. They looked as if they hadn't managed to avoid the English completely, but he couldn't find anyone missing at first sight.

Aramis too had spotted him and made his way over to Athos as quickly as his limp allowed and briefly pulled him into a quick, one-armed hug.

"I almost thought your aim had failed us," Athos remarked dryly when Aramis loosened his grip, and his friend just shook his head, grinning darkly.

"Forgive me. We had a run-in with a few of the Butcher's men. I didn't have a lot of time to prepare my shot."

Athos sighed. "Is everybody unharmed?" His eyes wandered towards Aramis left shoulder, against which the marksman was keeping firm pressure.

"I think so." Aramis wasn't looking at him, his eyes were wandering over the fortress and locked on the group of civilians. "One of the cadets I took with me received a slash against his head, but he'll be fine."

Athos raised an eyebrow. "And you?"

"Oh yes." Aramis looked at is as if he had forgotten. "Shoulder's out." He grimaced. "Would you mind?"

His friend shook his head and stepped forward.

"My apologies in advance." Athos stated and put one hand on Aramis' shoulder, the other one grabbed his hand.

"No…" Athos, without hesitating one second, put Aramis' shoulder back in place and elicited a pained gasp out of his friend, who grasped his hand so hard he almost broke the other man's bones.

"…need," Aramis finished, hissing through clenched teeth. He carefully moved his shoulder, and Athos could hear it crack slightly. The marksman's breath was ragged, and he was definitely in pain, but the shoulder seemed to be back in place.

Aramis tried his best not to show any of his pain. "Alright, your arm, Athos."

Athos, whose attention had been on the gate that Guillaume had finally closed, snapped around. "What?"

Aramis rolled his eyes. "Your arm Athos, you have avoided medical care for long enough. Let me have a look." The tone in his voice told Athos he wasn't asking.

Athos sighed and reluctantly unbuttoned his doublet and pulled up the sleeve on his left arm, to show Aramis the bloody mess that was his upper arm, going all the way down from his shoulder to his elbow. His expectations turned out to be quite correct – the two deep gashes crossed each other and one of them was bleeding sluggishly, despite the wound being over a week old. The flesh around it was red and swollen.

Aramis' let out a hissing breath at the sight of it and carefully moved closer, taking Athos' arm in both hands.

"Athos, this is inflamed. I don't know how you managed to fight today…"

"Right-handed," Athos commented dryly, but Aramis acted as if he hadn't heard him.

"…but this needed treatment days ago."

"There were other matters I had to attend to in the past weeks," Athos explained in a poor attempt at self-defense, which earned him nothing but a sharp glare from Aramis.

"You should never put something like this at the bottom of your priority list," Aramis admonished. "I should say something along the lines of 'you fool, you deserve it', but…" he stopped his rant and carefully probed the leaking wound.

"But?" Athos asked with a hint of amusement in his voice.

"But I know better;" Aramis retorted and ripped some more of Athos' sleeve away. "You are a fool," he muttered under his breath.

"Does it make you feel any better if I say you are right?" Athos asked and tiredly rubbed his eyes. He was feeling the weariness in every bone of his body, and the lack of sleep was quite noticeable too now that the adrenaline was wearing off.

"I need Gino's medical stuff from the tent to tend to this properly," Aramis declared and eased his grip around Athos' arm to put pressure against his own aching shoulder.

"First, we need to report to the General, I'm afraid." Athos rolled down his sleeve and put on his doublet again. "Also, he was knocked out by an English bullet. He'll need treatment as well."

Aramis scowled. "I'm fairly certain there are more severely injured men here. I don't care if he has noble blood, if he has to wait, he'll wait."

"We still have to report to him," Athos merely stated, his voice numb.

"Yes, indeed." Aramis' face darkened. "But forgive me if I slip and stab him in the face."

Athos narrowed his eyes as his conversation with Aramis from earlier returned to his mind. How Gino had said something that had massively influenced Aramis' opinion about the General.

"What is it you…" But Athos wasn't able to finish his question.

"Aramis!" That was Guillaume, who came running towards the two of them, his eyes wide with panic. "Aramis, it's Gino."

Aramis casted a frantic look towards Athos and gestured towards his friend's side. "Is it bad?" Athos heard the hidden question. Aramis was trying to evaluate how grave it would be if he treated Gino first, but Athos merely nodded towards the medic's tent with his head.

"I can wait. Go, I'll join you as soon as I can."

Truth was, it wasn't his side that worried him, it was his arm. But whatever had happened to Gino could prove to be fatal, and Athos knew it. And if they lost their medic, they had a major problem.

Every muscle in his body screamed at him to follow Aramis into the medic's tent, but his duty took control and guided his feet towards the commander's tent, where he had been told they had taken the General.

He noticed that the area around the tent was empty, leading Athos to conclude that not one musketeer had yet felt the need to look after their commanding officer. At the moment, he could hardly hold it against them. The attack on the fortress had once again shown him that Suard knew nothing about the men he was commanding, hence he did not know how to give the proper orders.

Athos pulled aside the linen sheets and entered the small tent. The chair near the table had been knocked over, and the map had been thrown on the ground carelessly. Perhaps the result of a duel between a French and an English soldier. It didn't take long for him to find Suard. The General was lying in the corner of the tent, stretched out on his back. The left side of his face was marred with dust and blood, and the wound seemed to be bleeding sluggishly, but from what Athos could tell, it wasn't too bad.

He slowly approached the man, not sure if he should try to rouse him. Perhaps it was better to get some things done before he regained consciousness. But before he could make his decision, or act accordingly, a voice filled with urgency cut through the silence in Athos' head.

"Athos!" Guillaume reappeared in the entrance of the tent. He was bathed in sweat and blood, which was obviously not his. "Athos, Aramis needs your help."

Athos didn't question it one second. "Watch the general," he growled on his way out and he ran over to the medic's tent as fast as he could. He heard angry shouting and hastily exchanged words from inside.

He slapped the curtains to the side and the smell of iron and the bitter smell of sweat hit him hard. Athos took a quick second to observe the scene. Gino was on the working table in the middle of the tent, writhing and screaming in agony. Aramis was right next to him, as well as Philippe and two cadets.

"What happened?" Athos asked with barely controlled panic in his voice as he hurried to get the medical bags from the other side of the tent.

"A few English soldiers passed through this tent during the attack," Aramis filled him in, clearly in a hurry to get this over with. He didn't even look up. "Gino was awake and fought them. He was wounded. The old wounds reopened."

Aramis made a vague gesture towards the leg, which was nothing but a bloodied mess. "If I don't stop the bleeding soon…" The unspoken words were hanging in the air.

"What kind of animal attacks a wounded man?" one of the cadets murmured, and Athos would have overheard it if not for Aramis' sharp answer.

"They saw an armed man attacking them," he said. "Even in his state, Gino is a force to be reckoned with."

Gino was already quite pale to begin with, but the wounds, especially his leg, were bleeding continuously. Aramis threw Athos a wet cloth and a small bag.

"You take the chest, make sure the wounds are clean before you close them."

Athos knew now was not the time to address the fact that he had never sewed a wound in his life, he had merely watched other people do it. But he knew his little experience was the best shot they had.

Aramis placed a bucket under the leg and started multiple attempts to stop the bleeding, but the truth was, there were too many wounds for one man to control.

Gino's screams grew weaker, and he was now only shaking, his pale and sweat-bathed head lolling to the side.

"Stay with me, hey!" Aramis gently slapped Gino's cheek. "Stay with me you bastard. We won't survive here without you."

He handed one of the cadets another cloth and continued working on the leg, trying to close the wounds that covered Gino's leg from foot to right above his knee, but whatever had happened to Gino during the attack had reopened so many wounds at once that stitching them individually was no longer an option, but burning them could prove to be fatal too.

Aramis continued to yell orders at the cadets who were trying their best to assist. Athos was trying to close the wounds in Gino's chest and keep him awake, but casting a frantic look towards the medic's face, he saw that the man had lost his battle against unconsciousness. His eyes were closed.

Fighting down his panic Athos focused on stopping the bleeding at the medic's side, and just when he started to sew the next gash, he noticed the lack of resistance in any form. His eyes found Gino's white face again, and wandered down to his chest. Something heavy hit his heart when he realized that the medic wasn't breathing.

"Aramis." Athos' voice was seemingly calm, but his whole body was shaking.

Aramis did not listen to him, even though he had noticed it too. Instead, he kept dressing the wounds and kept yelling at the cadets to bring him the supplies he needed.

"Aramis, it's over," Athos tried again, but his friend once again showed no sign of having heard him.

"Damn it, stop it!" Athos lashed out and grabbed Aramis' upper arm firmly, forcing him to look at him. "He's dead, Aramis. He's gone. There's nothing you can do."

"No, no, NO!" Aramis' exploded, turned around and kicked over the water bucket. Its bloody content spilled over the ground.

Athos just stood there, unable to process the events and unable to show any emotional reaction. They had lived through the ordeal that was the siege of Saint-Blanceau. They had been shot at, they had spilled blood and they had buried comrades. They had obeyed orders they did not believe in, and fought for the last bit of duty that they held dear on this damn island. They had been used as bait, they had served as prey for the English butcher. But now, Athos realized, they could not go on like this. It had to change, and they had to gain the upper hand. With or without General Suard and his foolish orders. Athos would gladly face a court-martial if it meant he could get the musketeers off Ré Island alive.

He looked at Aramis. His friend stood a few feet away, his empty gaze locked on Gino, his jaw clenched tightly. Tears of desperation ran down his cheek and mixed with the blood and sweat on his chest. He held one bloodstained hand against his neck.

Everyone had a breaking point. And compassion clenched Athos' heart as he realized that Aramis might have just reached his.

* * *

_Two hours later, Sunset_

Athos had checked back on Guillaume and the General, but the officer hadn't regained consciousness yet. He and Aramis had gathered the men in front of the gate and informed them about Gino. The reaction they had received was about what he had expected. Some just had sheer shock on their faces, others showed blatant fear. And then there were a few whispering about how Suard should have never sent their medic on the fateful mission.

Aramis had offered a few words about how he would try his best to take care of their wounds, but that had been all he could give them. The musketeer Philippe, who had served many months with Gino before he had entered the regiment, assured them that he would also try his best to provide support in the medical duties.

The civilians luckily had been able to find the missing members of their community. The children, as expected, had fled to a hideout near the cliffs outside the fortress. Further on, Athos had assigned Arthur and Guillaume to fix the hole in the wall that had cost them all so dearly. Not one person had objected to his suggestions, they had all nodded and accepted their duties.

Now, Athos was keeping his promise to Aramis and he had decided finally to have his arm looked at. He found his friend outside the medic's tent at a campfire, standing in front of it and cleaning his blade absent-mindedly.

"You are not as sneaky as you think you are, you know." The tears of desperation from earlier had dried on his face, his own bloody handprint still decorated his neck.

Athos calmly approached him and stood next to him at the fire, deciding not to respond to that. The warmth of the flames was soothing, despite the fact that it was August. His lids were heavy and he felt the soreness in every inch of his body, in bones and muscle, in limbs and chest.

Aramis turned to look at his friend. "Sit." He gestured towards the tree trunk they had been using as campfire resting spots and quickly strode back towards the medical tent.

Athos, in defeat, didn't even argue and just dropped on the wooden surface, unbuttoning his doublet and pulling his sleeve up.

Aramis reappeared with a few medical supplies and knelt down next to Athos. His face was inscrutable.

"Your side?" he asked.

"Merely a superficial cut," Athos reported. "I cleaned it and dressed it myself." He raised an eyebrow and nodded towards his friend's shoulder with his head.

"Your shoulder?"

"A little swollen and sore, but fine." Aramis usually was not a man of few words, however, he kept his answers short and his voice sounded hollow.

"The General has not yet regained consciousness," Athos informed him, not sure where he himself was going with the conversation.

"Good," was all Aramis was able to say. He carefully poured some water over the arm wound and grabbed some herbs out of the bag.

"Will you tell me what you found out about the General?" Athos asked bluntly and by the look on Aramis' face, he had hit a nerve.

The marksman nodded. "I will. But not here."

For another few minutes, they sat there in silence, Aramis concentrating on fixing his friend's arm and Athos silently enduring the procedure. Aramis stopped once or twice to briefly inform him about how Athos needed to rest this arm and how these herbs would try their best to prevent the infection from worsening. Then they dived back into silence.

"I have to go there," Aramis stated out of nowhere and elicited a pained hiss from Athos when he jarred the open wound. What would have sounded more like a desperate whisper from others sounded like an angry threat out of Aramis' mouth.

"Beg your pardon?" Athos subconsciously knew what his friend was talking about, but still, he needed to hear. He needed the reassurance that Aramis had drawn the same conclusions as he had.

"I'm going there," Aramis repeated tiredly. "…and see for myself if he is there. I need to know, Athos. The fact that you are still here is the only thing keeping me sane."

If he is there. If Porthos was still here. Or, in other words, if Porthos was still alive. The past dozen days, Athos and Aramis had worked hard to stop each other from going out alone, in order to search for their missing friend. Both of them had prevented each other from doing so in order not to get the other one killed.

But perhaps, Athos mused, it was best to join forces.

Aramis tightly wrapped the clean bandage around Athos' arm and tied it together. The swordsman put on his doublet again and looked up to Aramis, his own face devoid of any emotion.

"It is dangerous. You could get kidnapped, stabbed or shot on the spot. They could even torture you. Imprison you. You wish to hear more?"

"I am aware," Aramis snapped. "But I need to _know_. You're not talking me out of it, Athos. Not this time."

"I'm not intending to." He got up, swaying dangerously and carefully squeezed Aramis' good shoulder. "We leave at midnight."

* * *

_A bit early this week, because I don't have my laptop with me over the weekend. Thank you for reading._


	17. The Three Musketeers

**XVII. The Three Musketeers**

Porthos was shaking. He had lost count of how long it had been, but the days they had spent exposed to the harsh wind had left their mark. Mathis to his right had developed a cough, and Captain Méchant on his other side hadn't stopped shivering since the day before yesterday.

The General's troops had returned, and by the looks of it, they had not been victorious. Porthos could tell because most of the soldiers seemed angry; others were tired and defeated, and many hadn't returned at all.

Porthos just hoped that his friends had survived the ordeal. Somewhere deep inside, he felt disappointment, because over a week had passed and there was no sign of his friends trying to mount a rescue yet. On the other hand, he knew that they probably had their reasons. But he hoped they had not given him up as dead.

Heavy footsteps now caught his attention and he slowly lifted his head to see Lord Eadmund and his scribe, a man called Dunhall, stamping through the sand towards them. Dunhall was clutching a letter between his fingers, and Eadmund just followed him at a short distance, observing them like a predator trying to catch its prey.

"Can you read, musketeer?" the scribe asked as soon as he had come to a halt in front of them and looked down at Porthos.

Porthos huffed. "Letters aren't my strongest suit, but yes, I can read"

Dunhall waved the letter, while Lord Eadmund just stood and watched. Since Porthos' hands were bound, the scribe unfolded the piece of paper and held it in front of the musketeer as if asking him to read it out loud.

Porthos just threw his head back and raised both eyebrows.

"I might be able to read, but in case you haven't noticed, I don't speak English. Which means I also can't read it." _Idiot_, he added internally and stared right into the General's dark and unreadable face.

Dunhall's expression remained unchanged. "Give it a try."

The musketeer sighed and leaned forward as much as the ropes allowed, squinting his eyes in an attempt to decipher anything. Porthos' eyes quickly roamed over the piece of paper. The handwriting was small, and the letter was very long. As predicted, Porthos could not read it due to his lack of English skills, but there were a few words that caught his eye where he did not need to know English.

_Frédéric_. Then a few English words followed he did not recognize. Then another: _Théo Leroy. _

_A list_, Porthos thought. _This was a list of names_. Names of the musketeer regiment.

He rapidly read over the next few passages, and with a heavy heart, he recognized they were all there. A few cadets were missing, but that was it. Some with their full name, others only with the names they were called.

_Gino. Eric Boucher. Mathis Fabre. Guillaume. Arthur. Philippe Roux._

Panic, subtle and bitter, seized Porthos' heart as he realized what this meant. He frantically searched the letter for any more words, names, he knew. And then, somewhere in the middle:

_Porthos. _

_Aramis._

_Athos. _

Lord Eadmund seemed to have a contact in Paris, and by the looks of it, he had requested information about the musketeer regiment as soon as he had battled them in Cévry. Porthos had to admit, whoever that contact was, he was fast. They had only been here for a few weeks.

Porthos' slowly lifted his gaze and tilted his head to the side to glare past Dunhall right into the Butcher's eyes. He arched an eyebrow. "What do you want from me?"

Dunhall opened his mouth to translate, but Eadmund just put a hand on the man's shoulder to shut him up and push him aside. He took the letter out of his scribe's hands and looked down at Porthos and the other prisoners.

"I was hoping you could help me identify the leading forces of your regiment," the General replied in French, with an accent, but quite fluently.

While Mathis at his side gasped in astonishment, Porthos was hardly surprised. He had already guessed it. It was a common move, to pretend to not understand another one's language in order to gain information when the prisoners were caught off guard. Hell, he had seen Aramis do it more times than he could count. And knowing that the General was of the English nobility, there had been a good chance he knew some French.

Therefore, he had been careful with what he exchanged with Captain Méchant and Mathis when the General could possibly hear him. He made sure not to show any reaction to the General's statement. Instead, he merely leaned forward as much as the shackles allowed him.

"And I thought you were familiar with General Suard. He is in charge of our regiment." This was the first and only time Porthos was willing to share information, mostly because he knew that Lord Eadmund already knew about Suard. And, on a different note, Porthos did not care much about the General.

"I know about him," Eadmund said, almost annoyed. He seemed to enjoy Mathis' surprised reaction. Even Méchant looked a bit shocked. "I know about Suard. But that was not my question. I asked who is leading them. Who is leading the musketeers?"

Porthos slowly shook his head, as if he did not understand the Englishman.

Eadmund continued slowly, choosing his words with care. "You see, I attacked the musketeers' hideout this morning. And my men took Suard out early. Still, there were leaders among you musketeers. Men who have the trust of the others. Whose orders everyone followed. And this," and he held up the letter between his fingers, "this is all the information my spy was able to gather about each member of the musketeer regiment sent to Ré Island. And I want you to tell me who among them could be one of the men in question."

He knelt down in front of Porthos, finally on eye-level with him. He lowered his voice. "Or perhaps you are one of them."

Porthos couldn't help but laugh. "Perhaps, but in case you haven't noticed, I've been here for the last few days and not in the musketeers' fortress. Unless you think I led the men from here, which would be quite impressive I imagine. I wash my hands in innocence." Porthos looked down to his dirty and muddy clothes. "Figuratively speaking."

Lord Eadmund eyed him skeptically for a few moments, then his gaze wandered back towards the mysterious letter. "My man was under time-pressure, so he only gathered the most basic information. Dunhall and I, we narrowed the number of possible candidates for the leading force down to seven."

"Under what criteria?" Captain Méchant threw in from the side.

The General didn't so much as glance at him. "I highly doubt that…," and he now read a passage from the letter, "…_Frédéric, nephew of the Count Bellard, an arrogant young man with a dislike for authority_ could be a possible candidate for such a position."

He made a short pause, apparently waiting for any kind of reaction from Porthos. A hint of curiosity passed over his face when he realized he wouldn't get one.

"You wish to hear more?" he asked with an indifferent tone in his voice, but this time, he did not wait for an answer. He took the letter in both hands and began reading and translating.

"_Théo Leroy_. Joined the regiment three years ago, lives with his wife and daughter outside the city. Eager to fight for justice, but torn between his life as a soldier and his family." Eadmund's eyes briefly found Porthos, as if to evaluate whether he could possibly be Théo or not.

Porthos guessed that the General's spy must have had connections to taverns, merchants and blacksmiths to get that kind of information. Friends of the musketeer regiment. He highly doubted that this information was given by Tréville himself.

"It continues with very little information about a medic, _Gino_, who was assigned to support the musketeers a few years ago, but I doubt that a medic would occupy such a position of leadership," Eadmund explained further.

Mathis at Porthos' side coughed. "Or your medics are merely incompetent," he observed.

Lord Eadmund granted him a short moment of attention and turned towards him. "Bold statement, _Mathis Fabre_. The youngest musketeer in the regiment, it says here. You have three sisters taking care of you, correct? And … a few cousins in the King's army?"

Mathis murdered the General with his eyes, but he said nothing. Porthos just sighed. Eadmund was trying to intimidate him with the newly gathered information, to show his prisoners he had the upper hand – both in this particular situation and in the siege in general.

The English General turned back towards Porthos. "Then I can give you a man called _Arthur_. Served in the regiment for a long time, and even longer in the army. Apparently, he and the Captain do get into arguments at times because Arthur likes to speak his mind openly." The general paused. "Hmmm. Could be one of the men in question."

Again, Porthos said nothing.

"He has quite the reputation for drunken violence in public, so it seems." Lord Eadmund's eyes scanned Porthos, and the musketeer couldn't help but wonder if the General assumed him to be Arthur. He did not know whether he should feel flattered or insulted.

Porthos had to use all of his self-control not to show any physical or emotional reaction to the words that followed, as Lord Eadmund worked his way down the list.

"Then there are three more men. My spy says they have a reputation of getting into trouble together. Where one goes, the others aren't far." He cleared his throat and began to read. "There is a man called _Porthos_. Born and raised in Paris, a feared name among the cardinal's guard, and apparently, he once made the Comte d'Ivard believe he was Porthos, a legendary pirate."

Lord Eadmund made a face. "Sounds like a story worth telling." He again tried to elicit a reaction out of Porthos, before he monotonously continued to read from the letter. "Then there's _Aramis_. Long term soldier, in the regiment since its foundation. A marksman. Said to speak fluent Spanish." The General's eyes widened and he diverted his gaze from the letter and eyed Porthos. "Well, and then there are some … unnecessary details given to my spy by various women all over Paris. He seems to have quite a reputation there."

Eadmund shook his head and read the final lines of the list. "The third man goes under the name of _Athos_. Full name and heritage unknown, appeared out of nowhere two years ago. Received a commission rather quickly. No information, except that he talks and behaves as if he has received an extensive education."

With that, Eadmund folded the letter again and thrust it into Dunhall's waiting hands. He then bent down on one knee again, facing Porthos straight away.

"So? Anything to say?"

Porthos had prepared his words in advance and just laughed it off. "Well, you can guess I sure as hell ain't Athos."

The General's lips formed a thin smile. "No, I suspect your manners of speaking preclude the possibility of you being this Athos."

Porthos snorted in annoyance. "I am not going to give you what you want, '_Lord Eadmund'_" and he made sure to express his disgust in the tone of his voice.

The General frowned. "Not yet, musketeer," he answered carefully and got up on his feet, taking the letter back and putting it inside his jacket. "But my time for coming up with a proper strategy is running out. The Duke is not a patient man." He lowered his voice, and a dangerous expression crossed his face. "And I fear even you have tested my patience to its limits."

* * *

It was early evening. The fortress was only lit by two campfires, and most of the musketeers had retreated to their patrols or their sleeping spots. Aramis and Athos, after Aramis had fixed his friend's arm as best as he could, had continued to check on the men, both the injured musketeers and the three prisoners they had been able to take.

Two of the English prisoners were still unconscious, and the third one had contented himself with showering the musketeers in all the French swear words he knew. Athos hadn't even tried to get any information out of him.

Both he and Aramis were beyond tired, but they also were quite determined to go through with their plan for the evening. They owed it to Porthos. And, in a way, also to each other.

"Athos, Aramis!" Guillaume's call drew the attention of both of them, and their tired gazed met the nervous one of Guillaume.

The two of them sighed simultaneously and followed Guillaume, without asking any more questions. It was obvious. Guillaume had been assigned to watch the General, so their commanding officer must have regained consciousness.

Aramis entered the commander's tent and Athos followed him closely. Suard was indeed awake, and he was leaning against the chair, pressing a cloth tightly against the sluggishly bleeding wound on his temple.

"What did I miss?" the General got straight to the point and wasted no time. "Given that I am still alive I suppose we either won or surrendered?"

Athos couldn't help but feel a bit insulted that Suard considered surrender a possibility. He exchanged a quick look with Aramis, and while the marksman wordlessly started to clean the wound on their their Commander's head, Athos was left to furnish the right answers.

"We won, Sir." He cleared his throat. "Barely, but we won."

Athos had never seen Suard smile before, and it was a frightening sight. His thin-lipped mouth trembled and formed a smile, resembling more a snake waiting to kill its prey than a General who just learned of their victory.

"That's good, that's good."

Athos didn't move one muscle before he spoke. "We are all enjoying being alive, Sir."

For a second, Suard just looked straight into Athos' eyes before he chuckled dryly. "I Always enjoy your truthfulness, Athos." His eyes wandered over Athos' blood-stained clothes and all the dried blood on Aramis' hands.

Athos noticed how his friend's hands were shaking, and the treatment of the wound must be painful for Suard due to Aramis' exhaustion. But if that were the case, Suard did not show it.

"If we won, then why are you looking like we all just met Buckingham himself?" the General eyed them all curiously.

Aramis' stopped abruptly in his treatment and merely used a bit of alcohol to finish cleaning off the edges of the gash.

"We lost a man today. Two others are severely injured." Aramis huffed. "Forgive me if I don't feel like celebrating." His tone lacked any of the respect that would have been appropriate considering he was speaking to his commanding officer, but Suard ignored it.

"Given that we are fortunate enough to be still breathing, it is an acceptable price to pay."

Athos clenched his jaw shut and bit down the remark he had on his tongue. Before he could come up with a proper and respectful answer, the marksman intervened.

"You should follow me, Sir." Aramis made a wide gesture and without waiting for his superior's reply, he left the commander's tent. Athos bit down a warning hiss, but surprisingly, Suard did not look angry. He just shrugged and followed Aramis towards the medic's tent, not knowing what would await him there.

On their way towards the medic's tent, Athos noticed how Suard soaked in all the details he could gather. He noticed the civilians gathered near the campfire, and he also saw the thin line of smoke that mounted up in the sky from when Athos and Aramis had created their explosive distraction.

Aramis now reached the entrance and pulled the curtains aside. Gino was still on the table, as they hadn't had the time yet to bury him next to the others. His body was covered with a sheet up to his chin.

As soon as the General laid eyes on the body, he froze on the spot, which led to Athos almost crashing into him. Athos took a step back and rounded the table, taking his place on Gino's other side.

"He was wounded again during the attack," Athos explained. "We were not able to save him this time."

Suard's expression was unreadable. "We lost our medic?" His voice sounded hollow.

Aramis made a step forward. "And a friend." He eyed Suard carefully before he grabbed Athos' good arm.

"Come on, Athos," Aramis suggested with a bitter tone in his voice. "Perhaps we should give the family a bit of private time."

Athos' attention snapped towards Aramis, and he observed the same reaction in Suard. The General's eyes widened slightly, and his facial expression derailed for just a split second.

Aramis acted as if he hadn't noticed and bowed his head. "We'll grant you your privacy, Sir."

Athos slowly followed Aramis out of the tent and then he clasped his friend's arm and continued to drag him far enough so that Suard could not hear them. They came to a stop near the campfire.

Athos did not loosen the grip he had on Aramis' arm. "His family?" was all Athos brought out between clenched teeth.

The marksman nodded. "Gino told me. Suard's father is a … well, was a comte. The title is now held by Suard's older brother. Gino is…" and once again, Aramis swallowed hard and corrected himself, "…_was_ the old comte's bastard son. Which made him Suard's half-brother."

For a moment, Athos said nothing and let the information sink in. Then, he finally let go of Aramis' arm and ran a hand through his sweaty hair. "That did not look like a family bond in there," he evaluated. "Gino hated the man, and did not hesitate to say it openly."

"Apparently, the old comte and his sons had different opinions on how to treat the surprise addition to the family," Aramis spoke hastily, making sure nobody heard them. "Suard especially saw Gino as a disgrace, unworthy of the attention his father granted him. When the comte died and the older brother took his place, Suard persuaded him to expel Gino from the estate. Gino fled to Paris, where he became a soldier."

Athos exhaled slowly. "Is that all you know?"

Aramis shook his head, and he kept throwing nervous glances towards the medic's tent, fearing that the General could come out any second. "Athos, do you know about the battle of Ponts-de-Ce?"

Athos furrowed his brow. "Yes, I do." He vaguely remembered a few men from Pinon who had participated in that battle. He himself had been at the estate at the time, but it was not a battle anyone spoke gladly about. "The one after which the King made peace with his mother? 1620, I believe?"

Aramis nodded fiercely. "It was one of the first battles I participated in. The regiment wasn't even founded, and Tréville was not yet a Captain. But according to Gino, both the old comte and his three sons, supported Marie de Medici in her attempt to replace Louis with his brother. Not only with troops, but with supplies. Connections. Skilled infiltration and military traps."

Athos' frown grew even deeper. "So you are saying that they fought for de Medici?

Aramis cleared his throat nervously. "No, what I'm saying is that the youngest brother was killed in that battle and to me Suard gives the impression of a man holding a grudge. And should it still be against the King…" His words died down and he just stared at Athos blankly.

"…should he still support a revolt of the King's mother, it makes him a traitor," Athos concluded. "But Louis and his mother made peace years ago." He made a short pause and let the information sink in. He didn't have a high opinion of Suard to begin with, but he had to agree with Aramis. All of this did not present their commanding officer in the best light.

"I know that technically, his treason was pardoned and erased," Aramis added, his voice barely more than a whisper. "But does he give the impression he is now a loyal servant of the King?"

Athos huffed. He remembered Suard's reaction when Athos had reminded him of their duties towards the King. "But we cannot accuse him of anything, Aramis," Athos stated mildly. "He isn't guilty of anything that we know of. He may have fought against the King seven years ago, but after Marie's and Louis' reconciliation, all possible charges against her noble supporters were dropped."

Aramis looked seriously worried. "Gino wouldn't have told me if he didn't think it would matter. Perhaps de Medici never really wanted the peace. Or perhaps, Suard and his brother never really meant the loyalty they swore to the King."

"You think we can believe him?" Athos asked, and only received a confused look from Aramis. "Gino," he added.

Aramis' expression turned desperate. "He's dead, so there's no way to ask again." He gulped and his gaze wandered towards his boots. "I don't know, Athos. I really don't know."

Athos carefully chose his next words, and he became very aware of his surroundings. "Should Suard prove to be working against the King, we cannot stand idly by. But until we have proof, we should concentrate on surviving this island." He lowered his head. "Surviving his orders."

Aramis just growled in agreement. "I'll ask Arthur to help me with Gino. You should get a bit of rest." He made a short pause, eyeing his friend curiously. "What do you say? Midnight, outside near the rocks where you found the boy and his father?"

Athos nodded. "I will meet you there."

Aramis merely tilted his hat and turned on his heel to look for Arthur.

"Oh, and Aramis?"

The marksman turned his head and stopped, raising a questioning eyebrow.

"Thank you," Athos stated calmly. "For confiding in me."

The hint of a smile passed Aramis' face and he shook his head, as if Athos' statement was ridiculous.

"Always, brother."

* * *

_ I have no more chapters on reserve, which means from now on they will probably take a bit longer. I promise to try my best, but keep in mind that my chapters are usually between 2,5k and 4,5k words. It'll take some time. But I won't keep you waiting for too long, I try to keep it somewhat regularly! I expect this story to end at about 25ish chapters. We'll see. _

_Thank you to everybody who is still reading!_


	18. Brother

**XVIII. Brother**

"Aramis, there is absolutely no way this can work."

Athos was kneeling next to Aramis, their boots sunk in the sand-covered grass near the beach at Saint-Blanceau. Both of them were breathing hard and Athos could feel the sweat running down his forehead. He wasn't sure whether it was due to his exhaustion, or because of the warm temperatures.

"Confidence, Athos. Confidence," Aramis admonished, not diverting his gaze from the beach for one second.

Athos dug his fingers deep into Aramis' arm. "We'd both walk _confidently_ into our own death. I can give you that kind of confidence, if you like," he remarked dryly.

Aramis gave him an irritated look. "Now you're exaggerating."

His friend just growled. "We both know I am not. Listen, you are making it more complicated than it is." He crouched forward on his knees and pulled some of the branches to the side to reveal their view on the beach.

Both of them had been driven by sheer determination alone, and that was probably the only reason they were still standing and still going through with whatever their plan was going to be. They had approached Saint-Blanceau from the west, and had made sure to stay out of eyesight of the guards facing their direction. The camp was big, but it was obviously not the main English camp. This was the Butcher's forward position, and Aramis and Athos had agreed that Buckingham himself most likely was camping closer to the citadel.

Aramis' keen and trained eyes had spotted the figures tied to the pillars near the water, and identified them as Porthos and Mathis, as well as another man they could not make out yet.

"Instead of trying to perform a play of pretend we can only lose," Athos continued now, "we should go in behind them. In and out before they even know we were there:"

"Yes, but aren't you forgetting something?" Aramis used his pistol to point at the two English soldiers standing guard, and facing right into their direction. "They'd shoot us before we could even form an inappropriate greeting."

Athos shrugged. "We take them out. From behind."

The marksman raised an eyebrow. "There's still the tricky question on how to get behind them, you know?"

"It's dark." Athos rolled his eyes. "We have the ocean right in front of our eyes. The lights on the ships do not reach this far, and if we concentrate on not making too much noise, we should be able to reach the beach and stay out of eyesight. We take the guards out, free Porthos and the others and get out of here before they notice something is off."

Now Aramis felt forced to face Athos directly. "The two of us? Going for a swim?" he repeated with obvious sarcasm in his voice. "The swordsman with the useless arm and the marksman who can't run if his life depends on it? Great idea."

"Do you want to save Porthos or not?" Athos shot back impatiently, growing more and more uneasy due to their hesitation.

Aramis' immediately relaxed and tucked his pistol in his belt. "Hell yes." He nodded towards a small path that led down to the water. "You're right. It's our best shot. Still, without a distraction, the chance that we leave unnoticed is close to zero."

Athos bit his lip, thinking and trying to recall the details of Aramis' plan from earlier, which had involved a loud explosion and a dangerous undercover play of pretend. Athos gritted his teeth and tilted his head towards where the English had lit a small campfire. Which was currently unguarded.

"You could try to set a fire," the swordsman eventually suggested. "And if the guards return, you can still grab the musket of one of the soldiers we'll take out and aim for the barrels of gunpowder stored in the tent on the end."

Aramis looked at him as if he questioned his sanity. "You call that a plan?"

Athos just rolled his eyes. "And Treville says you're always up for improvisation."

Mentioning their mentor's name apparently had the desired effect and he was able to elicit a cheeky grin out of his friend. Aramis made an exaggerated gesture towards the shore. "Lead the way."

Athos merely ignored the dramatic suggestion and put the weight back on his feet before he started crawling, making sure he stayed as hidden as was possible in the open area in front of him. As soon as he reached the open space, he started running until his feet met the shallow water. He could hear Aramis following closely behind him.

He waded knee-deep into the cold water and waited for Aramis to follow his lead. They were lucky it was summer, otherwise, the sea would have been even colder and even more dangerous. Equipped with swords and leather armor, both of them had a hard time moving through the water silently. Their armor was heavy, and by the time Athos and Aramis had reached the English camp both of them were drenched – not only due to the water but also due to the sweat, caused by exhaustion and pain.

The salty water burned itself deep into their unhealed wounds, and while it felt like hellfire for now, Athos knew that its cauterizing effect would ease the pain soon. He could hear how Aramis was trying his best to even his harsh breathing, but Athos doubted it could be heard over the sea breeze.

Athos grabbed his main gauche and took it into his right hand, and he could see Aramis pulling out his dagger too. They both moved with the waves, to conceal the noises of their own boots in the now only ankle-deep water.

Athos caught Aramis' gaze and gestured his instructions, pointing at his friend and directing him to the right. The marksman understood immediately, and approached the guard on the right from behind, Athos followed, keeping his eyes on the guard on the left.

The two musketeers moved like one unit, Athos walking left, Aramis on the right, and without even sharing a look, they used their weapons to silence the two guards simultaneously. They kept their hands pressed against the Englishmen's mouths to silence the screams that never came.

Athos slowly released the breath he was holding and lowered the man to the ground as soon as he was no longer struggling, before he straightened up again and his eyes met Aramis'.

"I'll go and make some noise. You get them out," his friend suggested as he relieved one of the guards of his musket and shouldered it himself.

Athos lowered his head, knowing there was no use arguing with Aramis right now. "We'll meet you at the clearing we passed earlier." He gently laid a hand on Aramis' good shoulder. "Don't get yourself killed."

With that, Aramis nodded and turned on his heel, moving swiftly but quietly over the slick sand towards the English camp while Athos moved in a slightly different direction. As he got closer, he still made sure not to make too much noise, in order not to alert any guards and cause any unwanted attention. He narrowed his eyes when his gaze landed on the third prisoner, who was none other than Captain Méchant, who was leading most of Décart's troops.

The prisoners had noticed that something was going on by now, and as Athos strode over towards where Porthos was bound to a wooden stake, he was greeted with sour words.

"Touch me and I kill you," Porthos growled, not knowing who was approaching him, but sensing the presence at his back. Despite his shivering figure and his obvious status as a prisoner, he looked threatening.

Athos merely grabbed his dagger even tighter and started cutting through the thick rope.

"I think we would both agree it is better not to kill your rescuer," Athos merely countered dryly.

A moment of silence, and then a quiet laugh followed.

"What took you so long?" Porthos' greeting was about what he had expected, and still, hearing his friend's voice filled with relief and irony was the motivation boost he and Aramis so desperately needed.

"Please accept my humble and sincere apologies," Athos grumbled as he cut through the rope around Mathis' wrists.

"Your moody face is the best thing I've seen in a while, Athos," Porthos retorted as he wriggled his hands free and hastily got up on shaky feet. His eyes landed on a tower of smoke climbing up into the night sky on the other side of the English camp.

"I suspect that's Aramis' signature?" Porthos asked as he ran towards Méchant to cut him loose too.

Athos looked up to see about two or three tents on fire. The flames were almost the only light sources in the night, and the smoke was beginning to cloud the clear sky. He cleared his throat before he answered. "Yes. And it seems to be his signature of improvisation too."

He turned to look at Mathis and Méchant who got up on their feet as well. "Follow me!" he instructed briefly and pointed with his head towards the shelter of the trees where he and Aramis had hidden. Fortunately, none of them dared to argue with him, not even Méchant, and they ducked their heads and headed for the cover of the trees. To his right, Athos heard men shouting loudly, but there was no indication of a fight, which assured him Aramis had managed to stay hidden, at least for now.

Athos' bones and muscles were screaming at him to rest, and his soaked clothes put an even heavier weight on him, but nevertheless, he kept going, heading into the woods and watching the backs of the others. None of the voices back at the beach indicated that the missing prisoners had been discovered yet, and he prayed that Aramis' distraction was as successful as it appeared to be.

Athos stumbled when his foot caught in some thin scrub at the bottom of a tree and he caught himself mid-fall against a tree trunk, breathing heavily. He leaned against it with his good arm, trying to catch his breath and trying to get his spinning sight back to normal.

"Athos!" That was Porthos' voice, and despite his blurry sight, he felt his friend's steady presence at his side. Porthos' grabbed Athos shoulder and half-dragged, half-guided him further into the woods.

"Where to?" Porthos' dull words reached his ears, and Athos just gave in to Porthos' guidance and motioned forward.

"Clearing," he said. "Wait there."

A loud bang echoed from Saint-Blanceau, and Athos' head whirled around, casting frantic glances back. Flames and smoke climbed up into the sky, and he could only guess that this was the gunpowder storage they had spotted and talked about earlier. That was either part of Aramis' distraction or something had gone wrong.

As he turned his head back again, he noticed Porthos' slower pace, and together, Athos, Porthos, Mathis and Captain Méchant stumbled onto the small clearing, hidden behind larger trees and some rocks.

Athos came to a halt and took a few seconds to catch his breath, still surprised how his worn out body was refusing to cooperate.

"You have my thanks, Athos," Méchant informed him briefly, and bowed his head in gratitude. "None of my men would risk a rescue mission like this." Athos knew that by Méchant's standards, that was a pretty solid compliment. The Captain turned his head.

"I need to get back to the commander. Any messages I can deliver?"

Athos frowned. "Well, we are running out of supplies and have a group of civilians to care for. Also, the fortress we were sent to is barely more than a ruined wooden cage."

Méchant raised an eyebrow at Athos' remark, but he nodded. "I'll ask him to send you supplies." He turned to leave, but Athos' good arm reached forward and he clasped his hand around the Captain's arm.

"The citadel is surrounded by Buckingham, the siege is still going strong," Athos said, and suddenly remembered that he and Méchant were not equal in rank. "Sir, trying to find a way to the citadel resembles a suicide mission."

Méchant slowly grasped Athos' wrist and freed himself from the musketeer's hold. "I appreciate your concern, but I can take care of myself. You should go back to your own regiment, musketeer."

With that, he once again bowed his head as a farewell gesture and headed off into the woods, in the direction of the citadel.

"To our own regiment." Porthos huffed as he repeated the words. "Well, at least you warned him." He shrugged.

"Shouldn't we go on to the fortress?" Mathis threw in nervously between his coughs. The days exposed to the harsh wind seemingly had left their mark on both Porthos and Mathis.

Athos shook his head.

"We wait for Aramis. He was supposed to meet us here."

"Maybe he had to take another…?" Mathis wasn't able to finish his thought before the missing marksman came running onto the clearing. He too had lost some of his elegance due to his leg-wound and the wet, soaked clothes, but all in all, he looked no worse than he had an hour ago. He came to a slithering halt in front of the small group.

"Were you followed?" Athos immediately asked. As concerned as he was for their well-being, he had to make sure first they were in no immediate danger. To his relief, the marksman shook his head.

"Bloody English muskets," Aramis complained in between frantic breaths. "Couldn't get it to work properly. If they all care for their weapons like that particular idiot, the three of us can take out the entire English army by ourselves." He caught Athos' questioning gaze. "I threw a stolen torch at their tents. Seriously, you should've seen the throw. It will probably never happen again."

"I'll let my imagination do the rest," Athos cut in, to which Aramis pulled a face.

"It certainly won't do it justice."

"Why did you shoot the barrels anyway?" Athos queried, solely out of curiosity. "The distraction worked just fine."

Aramis stared at him blankly. "Those were their gunpowder supplies. Now they will have to take the time to get more," he explained slowly as if he was thinking Athos could not follow. The swordsman merely raised an eyebrow, and Aramis shrugged. "Besides, I couldn't resist. Sorry."

Then, his gaze fell upon the rescued prisoners and for the first time in weeks, Athos could see a smile forming on his friend's face.

"I knew you weren't dead," he said, with a surprisingly serious tone in his voice, before he quickly walked up to Porthos and pulled him into a brief hug.

"Alright, give me a short version – what did we miss?" Porthos' eyes were glued to Athos' pale face, and the dark circles under Aramis' eyes. He knew that things had obviously gone downhill since he was captured, but Athos understood his need for answers.

"When you and the patrol where in Cévry, where you got separated from the rest, Gino was severely injured. Arthur and Daniel brought him back to camp. The English ambushed our fortress yesterday. I guess that sums it up." Athos' face was grim.

"Oh and don't forget we deny help to the helpless now," Aramis added with heavy sarcasm, clearly hinting at the incident with the boy and his father which Porthos could not know about.

"Any…" Porthos nervously cleared his throat, and tears glistered in his eyes as if he was afraid of the answer. "Any losses since I left?"

Aramis' face darkened. "Gino died about eight hours ago. We lost Pinteau and Duval a week ago. Due to some miracle, there aren't any losses among the civilians."

"…that we know of," Athos added, and his voice sounded distant to his own ears. "We rescued a boy and his father. The child was ill. Suard denied help. Their fate remains unknown."

Porthos exhaled slowly. "Good God." He hesitated for moment. "Anything else I should know?"

Aramis gritted his teeth. "Well, let's just say we are not exactly on the best terms with Suard at the moment, especially Athos and I. The men are scared, but loyal to the General. As are we, you might say, at least for the first part."

"He has the authority," Porthos concluded knowingly and nodded his head. "Whether we like it or not."

With that, the four of them continued walking towards the musketeer fortress, at a slower, but steady pace. They were all longing to get back behind the walls, even though those walls hadn't proved to be much protection recently.

The wooden gate now came into sight, and judging by the voices they heard behind it, their presence, or the absence of Athos and Aramis, hadn't gone unnoticed.

"One thing, my friend." Aramis grabbed Porthos by the arm and held him back before he could enter the camp, "If you want to do us a favor, say that you were able to escape on your own. Suard did not authorize a rescue mission. Athos and I would face the General's wrath, which I could not care less about, but also a very tiring and boring court-martial back in Paris, in the unlikely case we leave this cursed place alive."

Porthos chuckled. "The wrath I can deal with, but it's my job to protect you from the boredom." He winked at both Aramis and Athos. "No worries. Mathis and I will take care of it."

Mathis nodded in agreement. "You can count on us. Is the General as ignorant as Porthos said?"

Aramis shouldered his rapier. "Oh, you have no idea." Athos shot him a warning look. He did not like how openly Aramis showed his disregard for their commander. Not that he did not agree with his friend, but showing contempt so openly was dangerous. Suard technically was on their side, but just because the English posed the major threat at the moment, it didn't mean that Suard's doings were any less dangerous to any of them, and Athos feared the moment things would go astray.

Mathis eyed the other three for a moment, but he chose to not say anything else. "I'll go in first. Draw the attention, so you three can follow with a little less noise."

Athos shot him a grateful look and Mathis strode towards the gate, which was already being opened, leaving Porthos, Athos and Aramis alone near the tree line. For a moment, there was silence, with nothing but the waves of the sea and the wind brushing through the leaves could be heard. Until one of them broke the silence.

"Thank you," Porthos said sincerely, biting his lip nervously. To his surprise, it was Athos who approached him from the side and laid a hand on his shoulder.

"You didn't think we would leave you here to die, did you?"

Aramis to his other side chuckled weakly. "And if that's the case, I expect you to go straight back into Buckingham's arms voluntarily, because I can't take that insult."

Porthos grinned before he reentered the fortress, flanked by Athos and Aramis.

"Nah. I didn't doubt you for one second."

* * *

It had been three days since Athos and Aramis had rescued Porthos, and it had been two days where, despite their numerous injuries and exhaustion, they all shared more moments of relief and joy than in the whole of the previous month.

Porthos had presented Suard with a truly breathtaking and only slightly exaggerated tale of his and Mathis' daring escape from Saint-Blanceau, which involved a treacherous English soldier and a risky game of hide and seek, until Mathis and Porthos had run off the beach and straight into Athos and Aramis, who had been on a 'patrol' that evening around the camp.

Suard at first clearly had his doubts about this story, and especially about Aramis and Athos' involvement. Suard might be a poor strategist, but he wasn't stupid. However, when Mathis had confirmed the story, and even Arthur had supported them saying he had suggested that Athos and Aramis patrol the area, the General had finally let it go and concentrated on any details about the English Porthos was able to provide them.

Unfortunately, the information was quite limited. Porthos had been kept at the outer borders of the English camp, and was only able to provide them with his assessment of Lord Eadmund's character as well as a few English logistics, such as their numbers or their supplies. But the information didn't really raise the musketeers' confidence. In addition to that, their problems continued to grow. Athos' arm refused to heal properly, Aramis couldn't find any rest and looked more like a ghost than a man these days and after Mathis, Porthos too had developed a cough which had already spread to three more musketeers. And if they didn't have enough problems already, Porthos had told Athos and Aramis in private that Eadmund seemed to have a list of the musketeer regiment, as well as some basic information about their characters. That not only had them at disadvantage, but it scared the three of them more than each of them was willing to admit. Porthos had told them that they are looking for the men who are the leading forces of the musketeer regiment, and Eadmund seemed to think that wasn't Suard.

Nevertheless, having Porthos back with them had filled Athos' and Aramis' hearts with a new resolve, and a new fighting spirit. Athos still did not talk too much, but he fell back into his old routine of commenting and listening to the banter between Porthos and Aramis. Aramis found himself able to smile openly again, and the weight on his shoulders due to his new medical responsibilities seemed a little lighter with Porthos back at their sides. Porthos had dived back into forming new plans to secure their survival, should it be attacks on the Butcher or ways to get through to the citadel, not without teasing the cadets and lightly complaining about the state of the fortress.

But the moments of lightness were short-lived, and Aramis once again felt hatred running through his veins as he fought hard to control his anger as he was facing the General together with his two brothers-in-arms. Suard had ordered them into the commander's tent this afternoon to lay out a plan on how to proceed with the supplies they had. As expected, there had been no word from the citadel yet.

And, to state it lightly, Aramis disliked the General's new plan. If 'plan' was even the correct name for it. It was lazy and showed poor planning, but he bit his tongue and let Athos do the talking for now.

"We could go back to Cévry, and see if there is anything left to save," Athos suggested now, hiding the panic in his own voice.

"The Butcher probably has done so weeks ago," Suard cut in brusquely. "No, I respect your efforts, but I stand by my word. What we have left stays with us soldiers. If the civilians want to eat, they'll have to care for themselves."

Athos concealed his unbelieving snort with a clearing of the throat. "Even if we can last for another few days, sooner or later, there will be nothing left."

"Not for the musketeers, not for the civilians," Porthos, standing on Aramis' other side, added grimly.

"I am aware." Suard's voice was ice-cold. "But one problem at a time."

Aramis once again bit his tongue, but it was Porthos who voiced Aramis' thoughts out loud.

"If we beg the authorities on the mainland for support, it could take days, maybe even a week until action is taken. What if Lord Eadmund decides to attack once again?"

Suard's attention wandered towards Porthos, and he straightened up in front of the musketeer, clearly in an attempt to intimidate him. Porthos wasn't so easily impressed and he just held the eye-contact, his hands folded behind his back.

"A little faith. That's all I ask of you. I have a plan, and unless I say otherwise, you'll do as I say." Suard rounded the table and rested his hands on the desk. "And I say, no I order, one last time: The rations will be provided for the soldiers. And for the soldiers only. It's time that the others take their fate into their own hands."

Aramis was no longer able to hold back, and he heard the words coming out between his own clenched teeth before he was able to prevent them.

"Sir, with all due respect, this is against everything we stand for."

"You musketeers need to learn to abandon your damn morals and do what is necessary for the sake of this island, for the sake of a victory!" Suard thundered and glared at Aramis full of hostility, but also with a tinge of fear. It had been Suard's attitude to the marksman ever since Aramis had informed him about Gino. The General did not know what else Gino might have told him, and he was clearly hesitant to find out.

Athos immediately grabbed Aramis by the arm to prevent the marksman from diving any deeper into trouble. He then just bowed in front of Suard. "We'll get to it, Sir."

Aramis swallowed hard, turned on his heel and left the tent as fast as he could. Athos and Porthos followed him closely.

"He can't seriously think that this is the solution to our problem!" Aramis raged as soon as they had brought enough distance between themselves and the commander's tent. His gaze wandered towards the corner where the civilians were assembled. All looking scared, all looking lost. Their eyes filled with anxiety and fear.

Athos dropped onto a tree-trunk and buried his face in his hands. "No. But he'll let these people die if we do nothing."

Porthos folded his arms in front of his chest. "Is that what we're going to do? Nothing?"

Athos scowled. "I said it once before: Suard's greatest weakness is his ignorance. He still doesn't know the men he is commanding."

* * *

_Next chapter may take a little bit longer, but I'll try my best to not keep you waiting for too long. Also, thank you to Laureleaf for your kind review :-) We're slowly but surely heading towards the climax. Thanks for reading!_


	19. What We Can Give

**XIX. What We Can Give**

"But Maman, I'm hungry."

Athos' heard the child's whimper even from afar. He was standing at one of the tents where they were keeping their last remaining supplies, Aramis and Porthos by his side. They had just been handing out the daily rations, and they had informed every musketeer that would listen about Suard's orders. Some of them, like Frédéric, had merely shrugged and retreated to a corner to eat, others were seated at the campfire, staring blankly at the untouched bowls in their hands.

"I know, my dear. I know. Hush now." The woman answered, cradling her daughter in her arms. "We are all hungry. We will have to wait until we reach the mainland."

"Why can't we just go home?" the girl asked, and the child's innocence and sadness pierced through Athos' heart like a musket ball. It was all so tragic, so unjust.

The mother's lips were trembling, and she just planted a kiss on the child's forehead. "Because home is no more," she murmured, more to herself than to her daughter. She threw accusing glances over to the musketeer regiment, her eyes full of sadness and desperation. Athos really couldn't hold it against her.

Athos eventually returned his attention to his own ration, and he followed Aramis and Porthos over towards a spot near the wall, where Arthur and Mathis were already sitting on the dusty ground, their rations about a meter in front of them on the ground, untouched.

"This is wrong," Arthur greeted them with a dark expression on his face. "I understand that Buckingham is not treating French civilians with the care that should be appropriate, but we're really doing his work for him." He threw sinister looks towards the commander's tent, and kept fumbling with the blue sash around his waist. "What did he say to you again? We should abandon our morals?"

Porthos nodded. "Something along those lines, yeah." For a moment, nobody said a word. "Do you think the King would support this? If he knew about it?"

Aramis snorted. "The King is a spoiled child. But despite everything, I am sure he has a heart, and he wouldn't leave his own countrymen to die."

"And what is Suard's plan anyway?" Aramis added. "If we don't starve today, we starve next week. We have sent no word to the mainland, and it has been two days since Henri last brought some of the letters to the citadel. Who knows how long it takes until they reach their destination."

"We spoke to Méchant," Athos said, staring holes into the bowl in his hands. "He is aware of the situation. If Commander Décart still relies on us to distract the English forces, he'll try to make sure we don't die yet."

"You sure know how to see things the positive way, Athos." Mathis was playing with his main gauche. "If nothing else helps, we still have the horses. It's better than starving."

Aramis made a disgusted sound. "We're no savages, Mathis. We need those animals."

Athos turned his head to cast glances towards the other side of the fortress, where the three horses they possessed were grazing on some spare grass.

He almost heard Porthos shaking his head violently. "The horses are too valuable. If all goes to hell, if it hasn't already, they are our only chance to get a few people to the citadel safely."

"If they don't starve first," Aramis added. "What is Suard thinking anyway? That they have to 'earn their keep'? Is he expecting them to go out hunting rabbits? All while trying not to get shot by an English soldier?" His voice was dripping with sarcasm.

Athos was still looking at the horses. "The General thinks this is the easiest way out of the problem for now," he said mildly, leaving the rest of his thought unspoken.

Porthos just shook his head. "The easiest way out is not always the best." He held up his bowl of stew, coughing a few times into his sleeve. "My ration right? Then I'm allowed to do with it whatever I want."

He stood up and unsteadily walked over to the mother and her child, kindly placing the bowl in her hands. The woman first made an attempt to decline, but Porthos was waving his hands violently and taking a few steps back, clearly refusing to take it. Eventually, the woman offered a grateful smile and began feeding the broth to her child.

Athos exchanged a quick look with Aramis, and without hesitating for one second, they too brought their rations to the civilians. Arthur and Mathis followed their lead. They attracted the attention of the rest of the regiment quickly. They heard the murmuring at their backs, but it didn't take more than ten seconds until they heard footsteps and the musketeers Théo and Eric offered their rations too.

While Athos, with Aramis and Porthos by his side, retreated back towards their spot near the fire, they watched at least two thirds of the men standing up as well and handing their rations to the women, children and men. Some more hesitant than others, but with a few exceptions, they all offered what they had left to give to those who needed it the most. The civilians, those who still had some energy left, took it with a smile on their faces, and despite the noise, Athos was even able to hear a child screeching with joy at the taste of the awful broth. His mouth twitched, and he shared a look with Aramis and Porthos. He knew his brothers had the same thoughts as he did. For the first time in days, this had felt like the right thing to do.

For a few moments, the five of them continued to sit in silence around the campfire, watching the civilians and sharing a can of water.

"No matter what Suard says, we could still go outside, see if we can find anything. There has to be more to this island than one destroyed village and the besieged citadel," Mathis suggested, breaking the silence.

"It goes against a direct order. Suard would find out," Aramis answered tiredly.

"So what, we're just going to sit here until we're all too sick to move, and the English can perform God's mercy on us?" Mathis asked.

Arthur sighed and looked up, and sent a scolding look towards Mathis, almost like a father scolding his son. "That's not what Aramis meant, and you…"

"Excuse me," a voice interrupted them and they all looked up to the face of the woman Marie, who had a hand on Porthos' shoulder. "Porthos, right? You rescued my daughter, back in Cévry." With a heavy heart, Athos remembered that her son had been taken, and with all the chaos of the past weeks, they hadn't even bothered to look for civilians when they had been at Saint-Blanceau.

"Porthos, I'd like to share this with you," she said and knelt down, offering the half-eaten bowl to him. Porthos raised his hands in refusal and shook his head.

"No, madame, I appreciate it but…"

"I insist." She forced a sad smile and gently but firmly placed the bowl in Porthos' hands. Porthos grabbed the spoon and offered her a gentle smile, while placing the other hand above his heart. "Thank you."

Only moments later, a child approached Arthur and asked to share his ration too, and then, a young boy called Mathis over to share the meal. The young musketeer threw his comrades a surprised look, before he got up and walked towards the group.

Aramis was approached by a young woman, one he apparently once had offered medical care, and he was given a few spoons of the broth they had just handed over.

Athos curiously watched how more and more civilians rose from the ground and scattered all over the fortress, joining the musketeers who had shared their rations and seeking to give something back.

It was Lucien who eventually appeared at Athos' side, and he elicited a hiss from the musketeer when he touched the inflamed arm.

"I know we haven't always been easy," the self-proclaimed spokesman stated slowly, and he pulled an apple out of the inner pocket of his coat. Athos could only guess where it had come from, but it didn't matter. Lucien placed the fruit in Athos' hand. "But we thank you."

Athos enclosed the apple with both hands and raised them a little, nodding gratefully. "Thank you."

Lucien nodded and headed back towards his family.

Athos!" Suard's bark could be heard in the entire camp, and all of the surrounding musketeers turned to look at the swordsman, who just pressed his lips into a thin line and stood up.

"Want us to come with you?" Porthos asked immediately, but Athos shook his head.

Aramis raised an eyebrow. "I'll pray for you, my friend."

Athos rolled his eyes and just turned around to head towards the commander's tent. He knew exactly what was going to happen, yet he felt no fear, nor regret. He knew they had done the only right thing that was left.

As soon as he entered the tent, he was greeted by their commander's angry stare. General Suard was standing at the tactical table, his hands pressed into fists so hard his knuckles were white. He was still rather pale, but the wound on his head was barely noticeable by now.

"You care to explain what is going on out there?" Suard's words sounded as if he needed all of his self-control not to shout them, and Athos merely straightened up as much as possible, not without the usual pain shooting through his entire arm. He did not know how much longer he could keep going like this.

"Sir, you ordered that the remaining supplies were supposed to be given to the remaining musketeers. And the musketeers decided, since the rations were theirs, that they would share them with the civilians."

"What is it with you musketeers?" Suard growled and ran a hand over his head. "I've seen men turn into the most selfish and brutal egoists because of hunger. But you, you prefer to starve in order to maintain some honor?"

"No." Athos stayed completely calm. "But we value the survival of innocent people higher than our own comfort."

Suard rounded the table and came to a stop in front of Athos, his arms crossed in front of his chest. Strangely, he did not look as if he wanted to rip Athos' head off. "Comfort? What about your survival? And do you value their survival higher than keeping this godless people out of our territory?" He sounded more curious than reproachful.

Athos needed a split second to evaluate whether he should restrain himself or not, but eventually, he decided that he was probably going to die here anyway, so there was no use in holding back anymore.

"Yes, we do. We gain nothing if we manage to defend this island for the King, but let his own people die in the process." Athos made sure to look straight into Suard's eyes.

"The King does not care who lives or who dies here," Suard said coldly. "In the end, all that matters to him is whether the flag on top of the citadel is a French or an English one."

Athos straightened up as much as possible. "Sir, with all respect, you cannot expect us to watch these people die. There are innocent men. There are women, children! We are not letting a child die if we can prevent it."

Suard didn't give him as much as a glance. "You know, when Décart told me I should take over the command of the musketeer regiment, I asked him what makes you so special. What differentiates a musketeer from a common soldier." Suard's eyes were fixed on a point behind Athos. "And he gave me no answer, he just said I would find out." Athos didn't need to look to realize Suard's attention was now completely back on him. "Perhaps you can provide an answer, Athos?"

Athos took a deep breath. "Nothing."

"Pardon me?"

"The answer is nothing," Athos repeated a bit louder, trying hard to maintain a respectful tone. "We are no better than the men that died protecting the citadel for Décart or the English that drowned on that beach."

"That's not true," Suard spoke with a deadly calmness. "You are alive. They are not."

Athos was growing more and more impatient. What was the point of this conversation? But Suard just continued.

"Besides, you musketeers joined, no you _are_, the King's elite regiment."

"Every man here worked hard to earn his commission," Athos cut in a little ruder than he had intended, but the General continued as if he hadn't heard him.

"The King chose you to protect him. Tell me, why did you choose to protect him? There must be more to it than a musketeer's honor, or duty. Why is it that you choose to fight for the King so fiercely? So stubbornly? So…selflessly?"

Athos narrowed his eyes. If he hadn't already known that Suard was not fond of Louis, he would have noticed it by now from the way the General was phrasing his assumptions, and the tone of voice in which he chose to say it. And the musketeer chose his next words very carefully.

"Our first duty is to France. To its people, and the one responsible for their well-being."

Suard looked almost surprised. He had been rounding on Athos like a predator, whether it was to intimidate him or not, Athos did not know. But the general now came to a stop at the table, and leaned against it, his arms crossed in front of his chest. He was not taller than Athos, but he was definitely trying to be at the moment.

"Let me say it this way: the King is not here now. And he is not going to save you, or this island. That is something that you have in your hands. You, Athos, your friends, and every soldier with Décart in the citadel." Athos shook his head, as if he hadn't heard correctly. For a moment, Suard had almost sounded like an encouraging commanding officer.

"If it is we who decide our fate, then why did you send our only medic on a dangerous mission?" Athos was not distracted, nor intimidated by the general's speeches and assumptions. He was focused on getting answers, and if he didn't know any better, it seemed that Suard was turning their situation into hell on purpose.

The general's face turned to stone, and the proud spark he had had in his eyes disappeared in an instant. "I have a plan," Suard hissed, completely ignoring Athos' prior statement. "And it will go down soon. The Butcher will not be prepared. We will bring in another victory, Athos. You just need to have some goddamn faith!"

Athos bit down the remark he had originally on his tongue and chose to bow instead. "If we are not dead by then, our blades shall be yours."

* * *

"You know, I didn't think I would have to say this, but you almost look worse than Athos here." Aramis' voice was pinched with concern as he watched Porthos' tall frame being shaken by another coughing fit. Athos, Aramis and Porthos were gathered right outside the medic's tent. Athos was leaning against a small tree-trunk, ready to get the rest his body so desperately craved.

"It's nothin'," Porthos grunted and squeezed his eyes shut. "I'm just tired and hungry. So, the general has a plan, yes?" he continued in a weak attempt to change the subject. Athos could see Aramis' narrow his eyes suspiciously, but he refused to be distracted.

"If it isn't any better tomorrow, you, my friend, are put on bed rest," Aramis just added, before his gaze wandered towards Athos. "The same goes for you."

Athos ignored him. They were all battered and bruised, Aramis was no exception. But Athos could not stop doing what had to be done because of his arm, and he knew that Aramis was aware of that too. Still, he was sure that Aramis was just trying to regain control over a situation that had long been out of it.

"He has a plan. An attack plan, I would guess," Athos answered briefly, and turned to Porthos. "He wants to share more in the morning with the rest of us."

Aramis grunted. "Let's just hope he hasn't lost all of his sense when…"

"Athos!" A voice called them, one that unmistakenly belonged to Arthur. Arthur had been on guard duty outside the fortress near the shore. "Aramis! Porthos! Get out here, quickly!"

Athos leapt to his feet as fast as he could, and he and Porthos took the time to pull Aramis to his feet. All three of them shared a panicked look before they ran towards the gate and slipped through it, rounding the outer walls of the fortress until they reached the spot where Arthur was supposed to be.

The musketeer was standing on the shore, but there was something else they were able to make out in the faint starlight and the spare moonlight. There were wooden boats floating in the shallow waters, and there was another man standing with Arthur. Athos and Porthos immediately pulled out their rapiers and Aramis grabbed his pistol, but Arthur made a gesture that showed them to expect no immediate danger.

The man was short and thin, and he wore a uniform that was much too big for him. But Athos recognized the uniform as he got closer, and he loosened the grip on his rapier. The man was French.

"Are you the musketeer called Athos?" the French soldier asked. He was young, barely old enough to be fighting in the army.

Athos nodded, and the boy handed him a piece of paper. Athos quickly unfolded it, and due to Porthos and Aramis' impatient stare, he read it out loud.

_With best regards from Cardinal Richelieu._

_Captain Méchant._

Aramis smiled in relief and made the sign of the cross, before kissing the wooden cross around his neck.

"This earns the cardinal at least a month of me not beating his guards up," Porthos said and called out for Guillaume and Théo. The musketeers appeared quickly, and when their eyes fell on the boats that were filled with all sorts of supplies, their eyes went wide.

"How…," Théo asked breathlessly and ran into the waters to check the contents of the nearest boat.

Porthos grinned. "Doesn't matter, get this inside!"

Théo nodded and couldn't hide his relief as he hurried back into the fortress to get help.

Porthos managed a laugh, and Aramis granted Athos a broad smile. The hope that seemed to be lost earlier this day had returned to their eyes, and even Athos' eyes shone with relief as he placed a hand on his brothers' shoulders.

"This is not yet the place to die, my friends."

* * *

_Note: A large supply fleet, ordered by Richelieu, actually arrived in Saint-Martin-de-Ré , though historically, it was a bit later (about a month before the end of the siege). Beforehand, it is told that Richelieu offered a reward of 30000 livres to the ship captain that managed to get through the English blockades to deliver supplies to the citadel. _

_We'll be back with some action and all that comes with it soon (we are heading towards the finale after all). Thank you to sara and Laureleaf for the lovely comments!  
Next chapter up as soon as I get it done. Thank you for reading. _


	20. Prevail or Sacrifice

**XX. Prevail or Sacrifice**

"Today is the day, gentlemen." Suard's voice was loud and clear, and echoed off the fortress' walls to burn the words into the minds of the musketeers assembled in front of the gate. "Today is the day we finally gain the upper hand."

Porthos wasn't sure what reaction Suard had expected, but he was rewarded with absolute silence. Not even the civilians uttered a single word. The General waited another few seconds to let his words sink in before he started pacing in front of the assembled lines of soldiers. Porthos was standing in the front row, flanked by Athos and Aramis.

"Thanks to the ongoing efforts of the Cardinal on the mainland, we have averted another crisis," he explained casually and Porthos couldn't help but roll his eyes. Almost leaving the men to starve was just another crisis? But his curiosity about the General's master attack plan got the better of him, and he continued to listen attentively.

"But now," Suard continued, with a somewhat satisfied grin on his face, "now, it's up to us to turn the tables. Once and for all. I have laid out a plan, an attack plan, and if we succeed, we shall force the Butcher back to Buckingham and off Saint-Blanceau, which gives us a chance to secure the beach." He made another pause, and he seemed to remember something. He turned to Athos.

"Did you take care of the hole in the wall?" he asked, and before Athos could answer, Arthur jumped in.

"I repaired it after the last attack on the fortress. It is secure."

Suard's eyes snapped towards Arthur, but he nodded slowly before he started pacing again. "Very well. That means the civilians should be safe during our absence."

"Does that mean you intend to leave no musketeers here in the fortress, in order to protect them?" Aramis questioned. Porthos elbowed him hard for the lack of respect in the marksman's voice. Not that he did not share the sentiment, he merely thought it was dangerous to show it so openly.

Suard's eyes lit up with a hateful spark when they landed on Aramis. "Yes, Aramis, that's exactly what's going to happen. We need every man for this operation, and if all goes well, we won't be gone for more than a few hours." The stare he gave Aramis spoke volumes. Porthos knew that Aramis and Athos were doubtful of the General's loyalty. They hadn't shared yet the exact reasons why, stating that they didn't want to endanger Porthos with the knowledge, but he knew they wouldn't make such an assumption needlessly. Aramis had promised to fill him in as soon as it was safe. But there was something between Aramis and the General, and if Porthos saw it right, it almost seemed as if Suard was scared.

"You all will be split into groups. Group A will sneak towards the eastern end of the beach, group B will attack from the west. Our goal is to chase them off the beach and, if possible, cut off their retreat towards Buckingham. Aramis, to Porthos' left, managed a stiff nod, and Porthos opened his mouth to pose a question, but the General wasn't finished yet.

"We will have the element of surprise on our side. Eadmund's troops are weakened by sickness and a lack of supplies. It is our chance to strike."

Porthos caught Athos' gaze from the right. _How does he know?_ Porthos mouthed, but Athos just shook his head warningly and turned his head back towards Suard.

"I know the past days have been difficult, but we need this chance to take back control," their commander continued. "I expect everybody to fight with everything they have. Sharpen your blades, prepare your guns. Athos, you and I will lead Group A. Guillaume, you take group B. I want everybody to be ready in about thirty minutes."

Porthos had a comment ready, but he bit his tongue. All these days of planning a coordinated attack, and this was what the General came up with? Porthos did not know whether to blame it on incompetence or evil intentions, not that it made much difference.

The musketeers immediately began to scatter all over the fortress, collecting their weapons and preparing for a fight. Athos, Aramis and Porthos were rooted on the spot for a few more seconds, digesting the so called 'plan' they had just heard. Porthos had to be honest, he was glad that they were finally doing something, but he wasn't sure whether this was the way to do it. He opened his mouth to voice his doubts aloud, but a kick caught him in the shin and he looked to Athos, who once again shook his head warningly. The reason revealed itself very soon.

"Aramis, you take a group of marksmen. There is an abandoned farmhouse, near the cliffs west of Cévry. We will be handing the godless Protestants to you on a silver platter." Suard had approached them. His voice was ice-cold, but he maintained the tone of authority appropriate for his rank.

Aramis clenched his teeth. "Should we await your signal?" he asked, and added a barely audible 'Sir' at the end of his question, but Suard paid him little attention.

"Just shoot every Englishman you see. Do you think you can handle that?"

Aramis nodded stonily.

"Good," Suard didn't even look at Aramis. "Gather your men, and leave immediately. If you don't hear anything otherwise, return when it's dark. Porthos, Athos, in my tent, in ten minutes."

With that, the General turned and headed towards the spot where they kept the English prisoners they had taken during the attack on the fortress. Porthos doubted it was a good idea to leave them here alone with the civilians, but a quick look towards Lucien, who was targeting the prisoners with hateful looks, assured him the civilians were aware of the possible danger.

"Alright, my friends," Aramis said mildly, and Porthos turned his head to catch his friend's gaze. "I'll take Arthur, and five more marksmen. Eric should join me too. And you two," he said sternly, letting his gaze swerve over Athos and Porthos, "watch out for each other, will you?"

Porthos coughed. "What about you? Who will look out for you?"

Aramis made a dismissive gesture. "I'll be fine. I have Arthur with me. Besides, it's you who are running with Suard. Make sure his orders don't get you all killed, 'cause sometimes I have a feeling that's exactly what he aspires to do."

Athos attempted something that looked like a comforting smile. "No promises."

"I'll see you all when the sun sets," Aramis said sincerely and squeezed their shoulders. "And, for all you hold dear, please take care."

* * *

Two hours later, Athos was lying down on the dunes not far from the Butcher's camp. General Suard was standing a few lengths behind him, and as usual, Porthos was by Athos' side. His friend was clearly suffering from the effects of his captivity, but despite his best efforts, Athos had not been able to convince him to stay in the fortress. Not that Suard would have authorized that anyway.

The space in front of them was open, but they were in a very dangerous location. Only about two miles behind them was Buckingham's camp, or at least parts of his camp, supporting the siege on the citadel. The Butcher's camp on the other hand was about half a mile west, but they would use the unoccupied beach in front of them to attack from the east and since the other group of musketeers, Group B, would be attacking from the west, they hopefully would have Lord Eadmund trapped on the beach between them.

However, most of Athos' remaining optimism was destroyed as soon as Théo's arrival was announced with heavy footsteps running towards them. Athos crawled backwards on his elbows and gritted his teeth as pain shot up his arm, but Porthos was there to pull him to his feet, just in time to witness Théo coming to a slithering halt in front of General Suard.

"Sir, Lord Eadmund has gathered many men around the south-western end of the beach. Many more than we anticipated. The resistance will be greater than expected. A lot greater."

Suard briefly acknowledged the statement with a flick of his wrist, before he turned his gaze back towards the open space in front of them. "I am sure that Guillaume and his men will prevail. They will distract the enemy, and open the escape route for Eadmund's men towards the north-western direction."

_Where they will run straight into Aramis' group of marksmen_, Athos thought, but he didn't voice it out loud. This was not what Suard had explained earlier.

"I thought we were supposed to attack at the same time, in order to have the Butcher's men in a trap," Théo answered, confusion written all over his face.

Suard hissed. "Lord Eadmund has us outnumbered. We wouldn't stand a chance. If we attack their backs on the other hand…"

"They are a diversion," Porthos suddenly spoke, and approached Suard slowly, his hands raised reproachfully. "Group B is a diversion. And they don't even know about it."

"It's a necessary move, so we can clear the field from behind," the General answered, barely looking at Porthos. He made a dismissive gesture. "If they are as good warriors as they claim to be, they should be fine. We're coming to help them as soon as the distraction works, and we get the element of surprise on our side."

"Why didn't you tell them the real purpose of their attack?" Porthos demanded to know sharply, and Suard's eyes flashed dangerously.

"Because they wouldn't have fought with the same passion and determination, and you know that it's true, Porthos."

Porthos just stared at the General, trying to comprehend his commander's intentions.

"Sir. May I speak to you in private?" Athos clenched his teeth. Hard.

Suard threw him an annoyed look. "We don't have time for this."

Porthos, who had known exactly why Athos had asked, threw his hands up in despair. "Then we'll ask you in front of everyone, if you don't mind: What is your plan?"

Suard furrowed his brow, and anger glistened in his eyes when he noticed that the musketeers were beginning to mutter mutinously among themselves. "As I explained," he growled and straightened up to face Porthos, who was still about half a head taller, "the damn plan is to do your duty, and we, together, will clean Saint-Blanceau of the English disease."

Porthos just kept shaking his head, and the rest of the musketeer group was now watching in hostile silence. Athos kept a steady gaze on the General.

"No, Sir," he repeated with all the respect he could manage. "We want to know what your real plan is. What is the purpose of sacrificing musketeers for a slim chance of defeating not even a fifth of the English forces?"

Suard almost looked like he had to laugh. "You should know your limits, soldier," he answered calmly, but Athos continued.

"You are a general, a soldier, a strategist. We have given you countless plans over the past weeks, yet you chose to ignore them for the benefit of your own 'great' attack plan!"

"You could have come up with something better," Porthos supported his friend. "But you deliberately decided against it."

Athos took a step back, to bring some distance between himself and Suard. The General looked like he was being cornered by the musketeers that he had gathered around him, yet he clearly did not see the soldiers as a threat.

"You must have a reason," Athos continued, his voice barely more than a whisper. "A higher purpose for this, a purpose you refuse to share with the men who are going to die for you."

"Yes, but the reasoning behind my plans is none of your concern, Athos," Suard cut him off.

Something inside of Athos suddenly crumbled. The wall he had built to protect himself and his brothers collapsed, the wall that had allowed him to act as he was expected to act, respecting the chain of command. And as he looked around at the faces of the other men, defeated and scared, he suddenly did not care anymore about acting properly subordinate.

"As soon as it unnecessarily endangers the lives of these men, it makes it my concern." Athos spoke calmly but coldly. "Every single man here is willing to die for King and country, but not for the egoism and selfishness of an incapable commander."

For a moment, Suard did not say a thing. Then, suddenly, he grabbed Athos' injured arm, so that Athos needed all of his self-control not to hit his commander, and dragged him out of hearing. No musketeer followed them, none except for Porthos of course, who did not dare to leave Athos' side.

Suard ignored him completely, and focused on Athos, his eyes wild with anger and fear.

"You talked to Aramis, didn't you?" The General's voice was devoid of any emotion, but the expression on his face was more than threatening. "I was right in thinking he was going to be a problem."

Athos furrowed his brow. "For what, for knowing that you once fought for Marie de Medici? That's not a crime anymore. Is that why you wanted to get rid of Gino? Because he knew?"

Suard showed his teeth. "The medic died in an accident. And he should have kept his mouth shut. I don't know what he told Aramis, or what he in turn told you, but I am still your commanding officer. And despite what you may think of me, we have a common goal, don't we?"

Athos withstood his angry look. "My purpose is to get the musketeers off this island alive."

The General's face turned bitter for a split second, before he huffed. "And you are doing this in fighting against the English intruders. You are killing the English in order to save your friends, and don't you dare to deny that."

"I am not," Athos retorted, barely able to contain his anger. "But this doesn't seem like we're doing this in order to fight for the King, or to fight for…"

But Suard didn't let him finish. "The King? Hell, the King has sent you here to die for him, in case you haven't noticed. He doesn't care. He doesn't care about me either."

Athos made another step towards the General, forgetting every sense of authority that used to be between them. "Sir, I don't care about your personal feelings towards the King, but every action you have taken since you took command of our regiment has been to damage the King's reputation, and to harm those under his protection."

"After everything that happened, after my brother…," Suard hissed, clearly aware that Athos already knew about that. "Don't ask of me to forgive that."

Athos felt a pain coming up his throat, a pain he had locked away the past two years and images of Thomas lying in his own blood flashed before his eyes. He blinked rapidly to get rid of the picture, and he felt Porthos' steadying presence by his side.

"Your brother was as much a victim as you are making us now."

Before Suard had a chance to argue, or even do something more severe, Porthos jumped in. Athos knew that Porthos had spent the past minutes trying to put together a puzzle he only had pieces of so far, but he understood quickly.

"You are using these men. Using us. To, what…get your revenge? On the King?"

"Do you have any idea what you are accusing me of?" Suard's hands were trembling dangerously, and Athos saw how he clasped his hands tightly around the hilt of his weapon, his knuckles white.

"Fairly," Athos retorted.

"This is your last warning, Athos. I'm still in charge. Your musketeer brothers are already attacking the beach, so you can either argue with me about honor and truth, or you can do as you are told for once and help me do our duty, help me to drive the Butcher from the beach and save the lives of your brothers-in-arms. Everything else has to wait."

With that, he turned around and strode back towards the waiting group of soldiers, who had watched their superior the entire time, speaking not a single word. Suard walked past them, raising his armed hand high in the air.

"Follow me. Let's support the rest of the musketeers, and slice the Butcher's throat!" A short war speech, a motivational speech to embolden the spirits of these men.

The musketeers didn't move an inch. All of them turned their heads and they looked at Athos. They looked at Porthos. As if they were waiting for confirmation. Porthos and Athos shared a brief look, and then they nodded in unison.

It wasn't until then that the musketeers drew their swords and pistols and followed General Suard down the slope and onto the beach.

As soon as they left the shelter of the trees and entered open space, the air was filled with fighting noises, and the smoke and fires about half a mile ahead assured them that Guillaume's group indeed had already started the attack, unaware that there would be no help coming immediately.

Suard gestured to the others to follow him, and the entire group fell into a fast trot, their steps silent due to the soft sand on the beach. It took them too long, much too long, to reach the camp. It had been at least twenty minutes, in which Guillaume's group, mercilessly outnumbered, had had to fight alone and unsupported.

Athos was already feeling the effects of his exhaustion, but the adrenaline that began to build in his veins was drowning out all other sensations. As expected, they had been able to approach unnoticed, as all of the Butcher's troops were engaged in the battle on the other side of the camp.

Suard kept going and pushed further into the English camp, burning and destroying everything in his path. The musketeers followed his example and burned the tents and knocked over the stacks of supplies, the few that were there. Athos and Porthos on the other hand just kept going, heading towards the fight to support their comrades that were already embroiled in a gruesome battle.

Without waiting for an order to do so, Athos raised his pistol and fired. His bullet hit an English soldier who was about to stab a musketeer, who turned out to be Frédéric, in the back. Frédéric was too busy to even acknowledge he had almost been killed.

Porthos to Athos' other side roared indignantly and pulled out his broadsword with his right hand, while he was armed with a rusty iron rod in his left hand. Athos too grabbed his sword and moved his pistol to his useless left hand, before he threw himself into battle.

Suard had been right, they had taken the English by surprise. They were unprepared for another group of musketeers. But the swordsman couldn't help but wonder how many musketeers had paid with their lives for that.

He felt like somebody else was guiding his arm when he crossed swords with a tall, lean Englishman. Steel clashed against steel, and the amount of force behind his opponent's strike was something he had not expected. Luckily, he wasn't alone.

It was Porthos who lashed out with his sword and caught the English soldier in his upper chest, which left the man stumbling backwards and wielding his sword menacingly in front of him.

Athos gained no joy from this fight, nor did he feel like this was the right thing to do. Something just felt very wrong, but it was his survival instinct that screamed at him to keep going. He continued to send one strike after the other against the injured man's blade until he was able to gain the upper hand. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw how Porthos was distracted by two English soldiers, one of them a captain, judging by the uniform. They attacked him from both sides, but Porthos, even in his weakened state, was not easily defeated. He landed a punch against the captain's jaw, knocking the man back and gaining space to deal with the two assailants one at a time.

Athos' eyes landed on Guillaume, only a few lengths away, who was struggling against the choke-hold of one of Eadmund's men. Athos, after assuring himself that Porthos was managing, jumped over his dead opponent and stabbed forward, missing Guillaume by inches, but piercing the Englishman's chest precisely. The man let go of Guillaume and sank to the ground.

Guillaume swayed dangerously, but his eyes found Athos. "Where on earth have you been?" he yelled over the noise, but he didn't expect an answer. He just turned around and crossed swords with yet another enemy soldier.

Athos on the other hand suddenly felt something clashing against his knee and his leg gave in for a split second, but he managed to keep his footing. He internally cursed his useless arm, but his right one lifted the rapier just in time to block a blow that surely would have killed him. He heard a frustrated growl somewhere to his left, and he turned around to block another strike. This Englishman was about Athos' height, but judging by his appearance, he still had two useful arms. Athos dove underneath the next blow and sent two strikes against the man's blade. The soldier merely made a step to the side and Athos did not know whether his reflexes weren't at their best or if he had just been sloppy, but suddenly, the Englishman was much too close, grabbing Athos' left arm firmly and giving it a twist.

Athos was unprepared for the pain that erupted in his arm and let out a sudden yell, dropping his pistol. Out of desperation, he smashed his own head against his opponent. He could feel the grip around his arm loosen and he swayed.

Athos stumbled backwards and his feet got caught in something. He lost his balance and crashed to the ground, his rapier up high to defend himself against a fatal strike. The English soldier, only armed with a dagger now, reached back to end the battle, but Athos managed to grab a discarded pistol with his left hand and smashed it hard against his opponent's temple. The man was instantly unconscious and fell to the ground motionless.

Athos turned his head to see what he had fallen over, and he felt something cold in his chest when his eyes landed on the body of the cadet Daniel. The front of his uniform was drenched in blood, and blood spots were decorating his neck up to his cheek. The big, brown eyes were staring into the sun.

Athos had no time to react in any way. A warning yell from Porthos made him leap to his feet and duck his head. He heard the hiss in the air as the bullet missed him only by inches. Athos' eyes darted towards the battlefield, and he could see Lord Eadmund. Athos hadn't seen him properly before, but he didn't question that this was indeed the English General. The clothing gave him away, and the way he kept yelling orders at the English soldiers, all while fighting off musketeers on two fronts like a rabid dog of war. He definitely didn't fight with elegance, but displayed something of Athos' fighting style combined with Porthos' and Aramis' all in one. It was impressive.

On Eadmund's signal, the English soldiers once again raised their pistols and fired at the musketeers, who had shifted towards the outer corner of the camp. But Athos could also see that the English had started to retreat – many English soldiers, with panic written all over their faces, started running towards the forest, and towards the escape route left open for them.

Athos took cover behind a wooden wagon, and pulled Porthos into cover too as the English soldiers suddenly started to fire the gunpowder they had left, again and again. He heard wood burst behind his back, but Athos made a mental note to thank Aramis for blowing up so much of the gunpowder supplies a few days ago.

"Athos, where is Aramis? Where are the marksmen?" Athos turned his head and spotted Théo, whose left cheek was bleeding badly. The musketeer ducked his head behind the remains of a tent. "We could really use them right now."

"Suard sent them to the ruins of the farmhouse, near the shore. They are supposed to cut off the escape route of the Butcher's men," Athos panted and twitched when a bullet wheezed past his head and buried itself in one of the wheels next to him, sending tiny splinters of wood everywhere.

Théo's eyes widened, and he broke cover and ran towards Athos just as another two bullets hissed through the air and missed their target. "The old farmhouse? Near the cliff?" His eyes darted towards the open sea, as if it held the answer to all his questions.

Athos grabbed him by the arm. "What is it?"

Théo swallowed multiple times before he managed to get the words out.

"I was on patrol with Suard a few hours ago. The English ships, Athos, they have moved to that side of the island, to block the French support ships that would come from La Rochelle. If they still have cannons on them, and know that French soldiers are hiding in the building, they…"

Athos understood immediately. "Suard knew about the ships?"

Théo nodded, and a frightened expression crossed his face. "I thought he told you. There is evidence of a naval battle on that side of the island, which the English have clearly won." His hands were clawing on Athos' sleeve. "Athos, if they see French marksmen shooting from there, they…"

But he didn't get to say anything else. Thunder exploded in the distance, loud and destructive, a sound that would haunt them in their dreams. And it was too close to be firing at something at sea. Athos froze, and Théo's eyes went wide.

"They will rip the shelter apart…" he finished slowly, his voice trembling.

Porthos to Athos' other side started shaking.

And there was one single thought that had control of Athos' mind. That Suard had willingly and knowingly sent the marksmen to their death.

* * *

_Thank you to all who are still reading!_


	21. Amidst a Crashing World

_Warning: Very graphic descriptions ahead._

**XXI. Amidst a Crashing World**

_The west shore of Ré Island, ten minutes earlier_

"Has anyone known about this place?" It was Philippe's voice that attracted the attention of Aramis and the rest of the group. Aramis was kneeling in front of what once used to be a window, his injured leg sprawled sideways. The glass of the window had been shattered, and now provided enough space so Aramis' and Arthur's muskets could aim at the path that ended right in front of the farmhouse.

The rest of the group was covering the other windows, and it was only Philippe who was still standing, pacing restlessly. As he had been told, Aramis had led the group of marksmen to the farmhouse Suard had designated. It had been abandoned for a while by the looks of it, and the musketeers had immediately made their way up to the attic of the building. Through the windows, they had a clear sight to the north, east and south. Since the English troops would be heading towards them from the south-east, Aramis had made sure that most of the marksmen were covering that specific area.

"Suard just said he and the patrol discovered it this morning," Aramis explained, not diverting his gaze for a moment. "He didn't see the need to explain himself to me."

"Or to us in general" Arthur, next to Aramis, grunted.

"He said he'll chase the English in our direction. Keep your eyes open, shoot on sight" Aramis admonished, trying to get the men to focus back on their task.

"What if no one's coming?" Philippe asked, with evident skepticism in his voice, which Aramis couldn't hold against him.

He rolled his eyes. "Then Suard and the others were unsuccessful, and they, as well as the civilians, who were left unguarded in the fortress, are probably dead." He couldn't help but feel bitter about it.

Arthur exhaled slowly. "Nothing I look forward to."

Philippe just grunted and a sudden, loud smashing sound behind him urged Aramis to turn around. Philippe had used the hilt of his musket to tear a hole into the windowless side of the outer wall, the one facing the ocean.

"What, are you expecting the English to swim to safety?" Eric asked with a hint of annoyance in his voice, but Aramis managed to shut him up with the power of a look. He did not want to be the leader of these men, but he had to be at the moment, whether he liked it or not. He furrowed his brow, but he kept his eyes on the path where his musket was pointing.

"What are you doing Philippe?" he asked calmly, making sure not to raise his voice too high. One never knew who was listening.

"Tryin' to get a clear look…damn it." By the sounds of it, Philippe was struggling with tearing the wooden beams apart. Aramis just prayed that it wouldn't lead to the roof falling down on their heads.

"The chance that the English are escaping with their boats is close to zero," Aramis explained calmly. He appreciated Phillippe's worry, but he also wanted the musketeer to focus on their current task. "The waters are too dangerous."

"Yeah, yeah, I know, it's just…" Phillippe's voice trailed off and when Aramis turned to look at him, he was staring through the newly-made hole, as if he was lost in thought.

"Phillippe!" Aramis demanded a little louder, and a little harsher this time, having difficulty hiding his annoyance. He didn't have the time to console or calm another man down at the moment; he was busy enough trying to keep himself focused.

"Aramis, Arthur, you should have a look at this," Phillippe suddenly urged, completely ignoring everything else that had been said. It was the honest worry paired with a tinge of fear that had Aramis not questioning Phillippe's statement.

He and Arthur shared a quick look before they handed their muskets to their neighbors and stood up, joining their comrade near the hole. Aramis gently pushed Phillippe aside to have a look at what had bothered his brother-in-arms so deeply.

It didn't take him long to find the origin of Phillippe's worry. The white colors on the sea weren't low clouds, nor were they remains of a foggy night. Those were sails. Aramis narrowed his eyes and was able to see the frame of the mast, as well as the wooden outlines of a bow. His gaze wandered down, and he could see wooden planks and boxes floating in the water, being torn apart as soon as they collided with the rocky cliffs.

_A battle_, Aramis thought, _a naval battle_. The question was, who had won? His eyes trailed back towards the mast, and he blinked rapidly in order to see what flag the vessel was flying. And there it was.

"Merde, Aramis hissed, and made space so that Arthur could have a look too. This was not the French drapeau blanc. "Those are English ships. And they are close."

"Why didn't Suard mention this?" Arthur asked, but he received no answer and the tension in the room suddenly grew enormously.

"English soldiers!" That was Eric's frantic alert, and without even waiting for further instructions, the marksmen that were still in position opened fire.

Aramis jumped at the sound, and while his eyes were glued to the sails of the English ships, realization hit him. A thought crossed his mind, dark and full of panic. That Suard had known about these ships.

"Stop!" he yelled, throwing all senses of caution away. "Hold your fire, abandon your posts."

The cadet who was with them kept reloading and shooting, but the musketeers immediately stopped. "What…?" Aramis could hear, but he cut off any other comments, and ran over towards the cadet kicking the musket out of his hands

"Out, we have to…"

A loud bang silenced him, and then another one followed closely. Aramis froze, and a delayed realization hit him. As the seconds seemed to move slower and slower, Aramis could feel the destruction coming closer. In a desperate attempt to do something, he grabbed Arthur by the collar and pulled him to the ground, knowing that it was pointless, but hoping nevertheless.

It hit them with the force of a thousand earthquakes. One moment, they were all frozen in shock, and the next one, their world was drowned by deafening crashing sounds and splintered wood flying in all directions, catching fire and devouring their shelter.

Aramis vaguely felt the floor giving in underneath his feet, and he felt himself falling.

And then, all that remained was darkness.

* * *

Porthos' heart was racing. His gaze wandered from Athos to Théo and then back to Athos, trying to comprehend what had happened. And anger, strong, wild and dangerous started to build up in his heart, overpowering every other emotion.

"Fire on my command," Athos bellowed and all the musketeers that stood close enough to hear him grabbed their pistols and got into position. Porthos prepared his shot and took a deep breath to calm himself, knowing that storming into the crowd blindly would do no good.

On Athos' command, the musketeers leaned out of cover, taking their shots and then charging forward with their rapiers drawn. Out of the corners of his eyes, Porthos saw Suard engaged in a duel with two English soldiers, and he had to restrain himself in order not to join them against his own commanding officer. He kept running next to Athos, and he could see how the English General's eyes were resting on the two of them. He recognized Porthos, and he noticed the way Athos was leading the other half of the musketeers in the midst of the battlefield. But instead of trying to challenge them to a duel, he retreated, and sent a dozen English soldiers against them instead.

Porthos threw himself into the battle again, not thinking twice. His sword clashed hard against another soldier's weapon, and the impact threw his opponent off his feet. Porthos didn't waste one minute and finished the duel, just in time to turn around and avoid being beheaded by a second enemy. He dove underneath the blade and punched forward, catching the man in the throat. The English soldier gasped for air, and with another precise punch, Porthos knocked him out.

He turned his head to look for Athos, but his friend wasn't where he had been only minutes before. Porthos frantically searched the battle scene, and finally spotted Athos two dozen feet away, close to the water and encircled by four English soldiers. Under normal circumstances, Porthos wouldn't have worried as Athos could have taken them out easily, but these weren't usual circumstances. Athos only had one useful arm, and was far from his best form due to the past weeks they had spent on this damn island.

Porthos roared indignantly and crossed the distance between them within seconds, throwing himself onto two of the English soldiers, pulling them down with him. They landed in the water, and Porthos immediately stabbed forward with the iron rod he still had in his left hand, impaling one of the soldiers through the upper body. He didn't have a second to breathe, as he felt a forceful kick against his wrist that forced him to drop the weapon. Another kick brought him down on the ground and for a moment, he was underwater, with the cold, salty liquid pouring into his lungs.

He grabbed his main gauche with his free left hand and coughed out the water, blindly stabbing forward. The disgusting sound assured him that his blade had found a target.

Athos, to Porthos' left, was knee deep in the water, struggling with an English soldier in hand to hand combat. The English soldier was trying to force Athos underwater, but the musketeer was resisting with all his remaining strength, having his hands clasped around his opponent's throat. Both of them were shaking violently.

"A little….help here," Porthos heard Athos say through clenched teeth, and Porthos was urged back into action, completely forgetting about the fourth enemy nearby. He was halfway there when he noticed the fourth soldier had abandoned the fight and was running into the ocean. He made the decision in a split second and gestured to Athos, throwing him his main gauche with a precise and trained move.

Athos caught it, and Porthos knew that his friend would manage. He caught the English soldier, and grabbed him by the shoulder. He did not know why he was trying to stop the man, unarmed as he was, but it was easy to forget in the midst of a battlefield. He hadn't paid enough attention, and he did not see the attack coming.

Porthos was forcefully knocked against the head, and through his blurry vision, he saw the few remaining English soldiers running towards the wooden boat floating in the shallow water, the only escape route open to them, as the beach was held by the French musketeers.

"They are running!" Porthos' voice, even in its weakened state, managed to overpower the noises of the fires burning and the men yelling. A sharp sense of relief ran through his body, but he didn't allow himself to let his guard down yet. Porthos ran a hand over his sweat-bathed forehead, wiping the blood out of his eyes. He wasn't well, and he knew it, but he had to keep going. For his brothers, and for the sake of his own sanity.

His eyes found Athos, who was on his knees about ten feet away from him. The swordsman was breathing heavily, and leaning on his rapier, his clothes dripping with water and blood. His hair was soaked too. Porthos approached him, slowly, but instead of helping his friend to stand, he too collapsed to his knees.

It took both of them a good minute to realize the battle was over, and the smoke of the fires was softly drifting over the corpses and abandoned weapons on the battlefield. The remaining musketeers were all standing scattered over the destroyed camp, their eyes glued to the forest through which most of the English soldiers had escaped.

Porthos' eyes found Athos', and he knew what would come next.

"Athos, the cannons," Porthos began, but he didn't need to continue.

"Yes, I know." Athos looked up at him. "Aramis."

"We have to," Porthos continued breathlessly, but Athos cut him off once again, one hand resting against his throat.

"I know," Athos repeated, "and I'll go and…" he swallowed hard. "You know. But right now, there are dozens of English soldiers swarming the area between Saint-Blanceau and the fortress. And the civilians were left unprotected in our fortress."

Porthos hated it, but he understood the sense in Athos' words.

"What about the fallen?" Porthos asked, his eyes glued to the ground.

Athos' voice sounded very distant in his ears. "We don't have the ability to bury them at the moment." It sounded cruel, it sounded unfaithful. But if all the marksmen were dead too, they had lost about half of their men today. Athos was right, whether they liked it or not.

"And the General?" Porthos growled, "What about Suard?"

Athos' face turned to stone. "Aramis knew something Suard was scared of. And Suard tried to kill him." Porthos realized how in Athos' words, Aramis wasn't dead. That there was a chance he had survived and seen through the trap. "Which means you and I, we have to be very cautious. We'll hear what he has to say, and then we'll take the measures necessary."

Porthos nodded grimly and looked into the distance, in the direction the English troops had fled. "The Butcher ran," Porthos murmured. "Lord Eadmund escaped."

"He will return," Athos commented, his voice hollow. "And he'll bring Buckingham with him this time."

Porthos' eyes were glued to the remains of the camp. "So Suard's plan will bring Buckingham right to our door."

Athos swallowed, before he squeezed Porthos' shoulder with all the assurance he could bring himself to show. His face was dark. "…and we'll be at his mercy. But Suard, he will be at ours."

* * *

Pain. That was the first thing Aramis registered. And the feeling that he was suffocating. With a loud gasp, he opened his eyes widely, taking in a rattling breath that resulted in a miserable cough; whirling dust filled the air and a thin layer of ashes covered everything. He squeezed his eyes shut to clear his blurry vision and the more he became aware of his surroundings, the more he felt terror gripping his heart.

He was lying between two piles of broken, wooden beams and planks, the ones that used to be the floor they had been standing on. There was a dull, painful sensation in his upper back, and as he tried to move, he realized that his left, already damaged, leg was trapped in a pile of rubble and wood. Aramis had the scent of smoke in his nose, and he considered himself more than lucky that this farmhouse hadn't been built entirely of wood, otherwise, he would have burned to death. One or two of the wooden piles were still burning, but the rain that was falling down on them through the hole in the ceiling had extinguished most of the other flames.

Aramis tried to prop up on his elbows, but all breath was sucked out of his lungs as a bolt of pain shot through his upper back, and he reached back to grab a piece of wood embedded in his flesh. He took a few breaths to even his heartbeat, and without hesitation, he pulled it out. A loud and pained gasp escaped his throat, and he quickly bit down on his sleeve. He did not know if there was anyone else here, but he did not want to alert any enemy soldiers to possible survivors. He could feel warm liquid soak the back of his shirt, but the adrenaline that started to flow through his veins helped him to ignore it.

He propped up on his elbows again, and used all of his remaining strength to pull his leg out from under the pile of rubble. He had been lucky he hadn't been buried deeper, and that he hadn't been hit by one of the cannon balls directly. Once he was free, he scrambled to his knees, and he took a few seconds to take note of his situation. His eyes found the pile from which he had just freed himself.

He swallowed frantically to keep the bile from rising in his throat at what he saw. It was the musketeer Eric, buried in the rubble up to his chest. A piece of metal had impaled him from behind, and stuck out near his neck. His eyes were closed. Aramis realized that he probably had been impaled by his own musket when the cannons had destroyed their position.

He knelt down on the rubble, pushing it off the body and he cupped Eric's face between his hands. "Hey, wake up. Come on," Aramis brought out between clenched teeth, but there was no movement in the other musketeer's body, and deep inside, Aramis knew that those were fatal injuries. Yet, he felt obliged to try. He brought two fingers up to Eric's neck, just to be sure. There was nothing.

"Aramis." It was a faint voice, barely audible to Aramis' ears, that called for him, but it was the one spark of hope he needed. He turned his head toward the sound and started climbing over rock and wood to get there. It wasn't too far from his own position, and a small sense of relief flooded his senses when he spotted Arthur, on the ground, leaning awkwardly against one of the ruined walls. There was blood running down his forehead, and he had one arm wrapped around his chest in a protective manner. Blood was leaking through his fingers, though Aramis couldn't see the origin of it.

"You aren't dead," Arthur greeted him with a bleak, half-hearted grin, and coughed out a mouthful of dust. "You looked dead."

Aramis stumbled towards him and fell to his knees, overcome by a new coughing fit as it swirled the dust around. "This island has been trying to get rid of me for five years now. I'm hard to kill, I guess."

Arthur stared at him blankly. "This task of Suard's worked out well," he spat dryly, and Aramis suddenly felt guilt crushing down on him. He had been in charge of this operation after all.

He took a few breaths and fixed Arthur with a stern glance. "We have to get out of here. Can you stand?"

"I don't know," Arthur admitted and held out a hand, asking for help. Aramis grabbed it firmly and used whatever strength he had left to pull them both to their feet. They both lost their balance, but they managed to prevent their ultimate fall to the ground. Arthur just nodded, signaling his comrade that he could manage.

"Help me see if anybody else made it." Aramis' voice sounded very distant to his own ears.

Arthur nodded and half-stumbled, half dragged himself to the other side of the ruins that had once been their shelter. Aramis continued to look on their side.

It took them about twenty minutes, though they felt every minute as half an eternity. Aramis' vision began to swam, as unshed tears of shock gathered in his eyes with every body he found. The musketeer Dénis, a marksman and their architect, had been hit by a cannonball close by. The left side of his body had been torn apart, and the skin had been shredded and burned so deeply that Aramis had been able to see parts of Dénis' internal organs he had never wished to see. The second body he had found had been Dorian, a musketeer who had served in the regiment as long as Aramis. He had been alive when Aramis had found him, trapped beneath a wooden beam, but the wooden splinters that had buried themselves in his throat had been fatal only moments after. Aramis had merely managed to be a consoling presence at the end.

He couldn't help but remember the first missions he had undertaken. He hadn't felt the brotherhood of the musketeers as intensely before he had met Athos and Porthos, but Dorian had been a good friend, and due to his seniority and experience, he had taken Aramis under his wing for the first months. It was hard to imagine they would never share a night at the tavern together again.

Arthur reported that he had found Pierre, one of the more promising cadets, also beyond saving. Aramis felt it in every bone in his body, exhaustion, pain and hopelessness. Just when he was about to give up, he heard Arthur's voice, filled with dark excitement.

"Aramis! Over here!"

Almost blindly, he stumbled towards Arthur's voice, hoping to find another survivor. Arthur was kneeling on the ground, outside of the building close to the remains of a fire. Next to him, sprawled unconscious on the ground, Aramis recognized Phillippe. And he felt the bile rising in his throat again. Where Phillippe's eyes once had been was now only red and open flesh, bleeding sluggishly and painting his neck red. He had a head wound, and his arm was broken, judging by the angle of the limb.

Aramis pulled himself together. This was not the time to forget his duty, nor was it the time to give up on the others. He knelt down on Phillippe's other side, and put two fingers against the man's neck, watching the slow rise and fall of the chest patiently.

"Is he..?" Arthur asked, his voice barely more than a whisper. He was doubled over in pain, his arm pressed tightly around his midsection.

"Alive," Aramis answered, "but unconscious."

"You think the others…that they'll look for us?" Arthur's voice was doubtful. And Aramis had some doubts himself. He knew that Athos and Porthos would turn over every stone, but first, they had to survive Suard's plan concerning Saint-Blanceau. And if that was the case, they had probably seen or heard that this location had been torn to shreds. Aramis still believed his survival to be a miracle or a good amount of luck, though the numb pain in his shoulder and the blurry vision reminded him of what he had just been through.

"They will," he heard himself answer eventually, "but we have to get out of here. There are English soldiers fleeing from the beach. We shot at them earlier." He took a moment to cough out some more dust. "We have to find another shelter."

"There's a path, not far from here," Arthur panted, and Aramis could see that his teeth were stained red as well. "Saw it earlier. It leads down the cliffs. Perhaps there is a shelter down there. Don't think…they will look there."

Aramis nodded, stood up and swayed dangerously, but as soon as he had solid footing, he pulled Arthur to his feet too. "I don't think I can handle Phillippe alone," he murmured, and Arthur understood and waved with his free hand.

"I'll manage."

Together, they lifted the motionless body of Phillippe, and they started the long and torturous way towards the path and down the cliffs. Arthur's legs gave way twice; Aramis lost his balance once, and Phillippe didn't show any sign of consciousness all the way. The position of the sun told them it was afternoon, and the dark clouds that began to form right above them spoke of a lot more rain to come.

When they had finally reached the bottom of the cliffs, there was a thin line of sand, only about three meters wide, separating the tall rocks and the sea.

"There. Just a little further," Aramis said as he felt Phillippe's dead weight more and more. Arthur too was panting heavily. Aramis felt the sweat running down his forehead, and his lungs were burning, but he spotted a hollow in one of the tall rocks and he and Arthur began to drag Phillippe towards it. Once they were there, they dropped to the ground, wheezing for air and holding their battered bodies.

Aramis closed his eyes. They had been seven. Only three had survived, though Aramis wasn't sure whether they would survive the night.

_The ships_. It was only a guess, but Aramis had a feeling it hadn't been a coincidence that Suard had sent him here, and something told him that the General had known about the ships too. And it had cost the lives of four good men, perhaps more, judging by their conditions. The images of the victims up in the farmhouse flashed in front of his inner eye, and his gaze rested on the open flesh that had taken Phillippes sight.

_Athos. Porthos_. Aramis' mind clung to the thought of his brothers coming to his aid, just like they had always done. He heard Arthur taking in short, pained breaths, and the marksman decided to do the only thing he had left.

Aramis gently pressed his hands down on his comrade's shoulders. And then, he prayed.

* * *

_Next chapter might take a little bit longer, but I'll try to not keep you waiting for too long. _  
_Stay safe everybody and take care!_


	22. Far Away From Home

**XXII. Far Away From Home**

Porthos' eyes rested on Athos, trying to understand what exactly they had just talked about, and if it was a good idea considering they were both not in the best of shape.

"What if I am too late?" Porthos asked Athos, but his friend made a dismissive gesture.

"You won't be. It's our best shot."

"Musketeers! Back to the fortress!" It was none other than General Suard's voice echoing over the abandoned battle scene, and Athos, still breathing heavily, exchanged a quick look with Porthos, as if asking him if he was sure. Porthos was distracted, as he had silently hoped that the Suard problem would have solved itself.

He merely nodded and they both looked towards the distant silhouette of their commander. Athos finally accepted Porthos' help and his friend pulled him back to his feet. Athos rested his hands on his knees, taking deep breaths and trying to calm his shaking body.

"It's settled then." He raised his voice. "You go, keep the civilians safe, from whoever poses a threat. I'll check the farmhouse and catch up as soon as possible. Théo!" To Athos' surprise, Théo was there immediately, looking a bit worn out, but all in all more healthy than Athos. "You are with me."

"Athos." Porthos grabbed his shoulder firmly. "Be careful. The place may be occupied by some remaining English soldiers. "I'll deal with the civilians, and, if necessary," he exchanged a meaningful look with the swordsman, "with Suard."

Athos nodded and squeezed Porthos' arm in assurance. "You are aware you might be guilty of insubordination then?" It was more a question than a warning, the question whether Porthos was willing to risk it. But Athos knew the answer before his friend spoke.

Porthos just tilted his head and lowered his voice. "In all honesty, that's the least of my concerns at the moment." He threw a look over his shoulder. "You should hurry." He bit his lip. "If there are survivors…bring 'em back."

Athos took a step backwards. "That's the plan."

With Théo by his side, Athos stumbled in the direction of the farmhouse. Unease ran through every part of Porthos' body as he watched his friend disappear behind the trees, knowing that it should be him going with Athos to look for Aramis and other survivors, but Athos had explained to him the necessity of his role in this whole exercise.

Porthos, accompanied by three more musketeers, one of whom was Guillaume, ran towards the woods where Suard was already leading the remaining men back towards the fortress. Porthos had no choice but to follow, casting nervous glances back towards the direction Athos had taken.

It took Suard about fifteen minutes until he first came to a stop, apparently realizing that they needed to regroup. Porthos, with his energy beyond drained, tried to use his gloved hand to prevent the sweat from running down his forehead and into his eyes.

Suard had come to a stop in the ruins of Cévry, with his impressive broadsword clasped between his hands.

"We're going straight back to the fortress," Suard ordered, letting his gaze swerve over the remaining musketeers. "The English could be anywhere, but at least they no longer occupy Saint-Blanceau. If anybody is in need of assistance, he should speak now."

"Robert is heavily injured," Mathis reported. Porthos looked towards them, and Mathis as well as one of the cadets had the musketeer Robert between them, keeping him upright, while the injured man fought for consciousness. "But we have him."

Suard fixed him with a cold stare. "He could slow us down."

"Save your speeches," Mathis shot back, his voice venomous. "I said we have him."

Suard visibly thought about taking measures against Mathis' inappropriate behavior, but he noticed Porthos standing not too far away, and apparently he remembered their earlier conversation, before the battle had begun.

He decided just to nod stiffly, and then he motioned north with his sword, and the musketeers took formation and managed a fast trot. Meanwhile, Suard fell back and came to a halt in front of Porthos.

"Where's Athos?" Suard wasn't asking kindly. His tone was sharp, and the glistering in his eyes looked dangerous to Porthos.

"Headed to see if any of the marksmen survived," Porthos replied, his voice devoid of all emotion. The mere image of his friends, of his brother, being slaughtered by English cannons made his heart race.

"Damnit! I didn't tell him to do so!" Suard ran a hand over his head. "Porthos, you bring the musketeers to the fortress, and clear any English soldiers from this part of the island. I'll get Athos out of there. He could run into the enemy and need help." Without even bothering to wait for Porthos' reply, he charged west, towards the old farmhouse where Athos and Théo had gone. It almost looked as if he really did intend to rescue Athos, not endanger him.

"Guillaume!" Porthos called, and luckily, the musketeer appeared at his side immediately. Porthos gave him the orders, and despite the fact that he was in no way authorized to do so, Guillaume didn't even question them. He had seen the look on Porthos' face and he had put the pieces together.

Grim satisfaction spread over Porthos' face as he grabbed the hilt of his pistol even tighter. Suard would come this far, and not one step further.

* * *

Aramis awoke with a gasp. The light rain the wind blew onto them seemed to have awoken him, though he hadn't been asleep voluntarily. He must have lost consciousness, but by the looks of it, he hadn't been out for too long. Philippe, to Aramis' right, didn't show any signs of waking up yet, his motionless body propped up so it was hidden inside the hollow. Arthur was leaning against the rocky surface to his left, the musketeer's arm still cradled against his bleeding chest. His eyes were only half open, and Aramis did not like the paleness in his friend's face.

"The battle is over." Arthur's voice was barely more than a whisper, and he kept his gaze focused on the ocean.

"What makes you think that?" Aramis groaned as he tried to get himself into a sitting position, causing a sharp pain to shoot across his upper back and neck.

"The island is so silent." Arthur's words were slurred.

_Merde_, Aramis thought. His moments of unconsciousness, even if it had only been minutes, had cost them dearly. He had to take care of the others, as much as he could manage under these circumstances anyway.

Aramis leaned forward and grabbed Arthur's arm. "I need to see, my friend."

Arthur needed a few seconds to comprehend Aramis' request, but then he carefully loosened his grip around his lower abdomen. His arm came away bloody, and a pool of blood had formed on the ground underneath the soldier's body. Aramis also noticed the rattled breathing, and fear gripped his heart as he realized he might be useless to Arthur after all.

Aramis grabbed his main gauche to cut through the remains of the uniform around the wound, and the lack of resistance scared him more than he allowed himself to show. When the true extend revealed itself, Aramis closed his eyes and exhaled slowly, to gather his thoughts and steady his hands. The wound was deep. And it was still bleeding profusely.

Aramis had little to no possibilities for medical treatment here. He couldn't leave the hollow, as he was sure that there were English soldiers somewhere in the area. With two severely injured musketeers, plus himself in no good condition, it would be no contest should he meet with any opposition.

"I'll have to…," he started, but he didn't bother to explain more. He merely grabbed the sash tied around Arthurs waist, loosened it and pressed it on the wound.

"I have nothing to cauterize the wound here," Aramis murmured, more to himself than to Arthur, but his friend was still conscious and listening.

"What about the water?" Arthur nodded towards the ocean, only a few meters away from their feet.

Aramis bit his lip indecisively. "The wound is too deep. It would only speed infection. I want to spare you the pain."

The words had left his lips before he thought about it twice, fully aware of how it must sound to Arthur's ears, but the musketeer merely grabbed Aramis' wrist. "Then don't. I'll…just sit here for now." His head sank back against the stony surface. Aramis studied him suspiciously. Arthur was already going into shock, but he had absolutely nothing here to stop the bleeding except his prayers for a miracle.

"Keep pressure on that," Aramis ordered before he turned towards Philippe. A flood of memories hit him when he looked at Philippe's bloodied and pale face. He remembered the last time on Ré Island, where he and Philippe had previously fallen victim to the cannons. They had gotten out of it that time. They had never been the closest friends, but Aramis had a deep respect for the man. Philippe was an excellent marksman, almost on Aramis' level, and he too had some medical experience. He was a helpful soul, but also had a tendency for irrational thinking, emotional outbursts and egoistic decisions.

But now that he was lying there, Aramis, for the first time, felt completely and utterly helpless. Philippe's chest was slowly rising and falling, indicating the musketeer was still clinging to life, but apart from the obvious injuries to the eyes, there was also a deep wound in his chest, one Aramis could not treat here.

"A marksman without eyes," Arthur said in his half-delirium, leaving the rest of his statement unfinished. Aramis closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

"I know."

He could go out there. Out of the three of them, he was the least injured, despite his bleeding back and his injured leg. But if he could find a way out of here, for all of them, there might be a chance to get help. Or he could go to find resources to treat his comrades' wounds. The complete and utter helplessness wrenched his heart. He slowly climbed to his feet and, crouching down in front of Philippe, used a piece of cloth from his sleeve to dab the blood off the musketeers face.

"I know what you're thinking," Arthur's murmured voice interrupted his thoughts. "Don't do it. You'd condemn yourself and us to death."

"I might not be able to save us anyway," Aramis retorted a little harsher than he had intended, but Arthur didn't hold it against him. He felt a reassuring pressure on his upper arm.

"Athos will come. Porthos won't leave us here to die either." He coughed, and a yelp of pain escaped his lips.

Aramis pressed his lips into a thin line and nodded. "I know. But we don't even know if they survived the battle. Survived Suard. They could be dead for all we know."

"Oh, you'd know. The bond you three share…," Arthur made a short pause. "Trust me, you'd know. Where's your faith when we need it?" Another pause. Aramis did not know what to answer, but he didn't need to.

A dry, humorless laugh escaped Arthur's lips. "Besides, I prefer to die in the company of friends than in the company of my enemy."

Aramis, cradling his crucifix in his free hand, almost smiled. "Hold on my friend. Just a little longer."

* * *

By the time he and Théo reached the location of the farmhouse, Athos was not only panting, but his heart was pounding so heavily he feared it might jump out of his chest. Still, for his own sake and Théo's sake, he made sure not to show any emotional reaction.

However, as he looked at the ruins, it felt as though someone had punched him hard. It was difficult to imagine this used to be a house, a big farmhouse even. Where the building once had been was nothing but a large pile of wood, surrounded by a few smaller piles and the ground was covered in pieces of the building and ashes from the fires. Some parts of the frame, about three solid wooden beams, had survived the attack, but they were looking so frail Athos doubted they would hold on for long.

"We should…" Théo started and Athos just nodded numbly, following his comrade to the smoking rubble. He was not a man of faith, but he prayed that there were still some people left to save. And, as selfish as it was, he hoped that his brother was one of them.

Athos carefully stepped over a pile of flaming wood, one hand constantly on the hilt of his rapier, prepared to defend himself if necessary. He was expecting at least one unfriendly visitor after all, as he had talked about with Porthos.

They had no idea what they were walking into. Théo sped past Athos, as he was still more or less uninjured, and walked straight towards the first body in their eyesight.

Athos did not know what he had expected, nor did he know why he had thought to be prepared, but dizziness hit him with a sudden jolt as he laid eyes on the torn and lifeless body of the musketeer Dénis. A marksman and the regiments architect in the eyes of Suard, but a kind-hearted and joking comrade in Athos' eyes, one who had never taken anything too seriously and had annoyed the hell out of him more than once. By the looks of it, Dénis had fallen victim to one of the cannons directly. One half of his body was a bloodied mess, and Athos could only hope that he had not suffered long.

Théo squeezed Athos' good arm and together, they kept looking for more. A short distance away, they found Dorian, whose eyes were closed, his own hand clasped around his neck, still leaking with blood. Athos didn't need to check to know that there was nothing he could do.

Athos almost stepped on the body of the cadet Pierre, his big, blue eyes staring into nothingness. He had no personal connection to the cadet, but the young man had been promising and did not deserve such a horrible fate.

Eric had been harder to find, as he had been buried in the rubble up to his chest. Athos determined that the cause of his death was probably the musket that had impaled him from behind, and he felt a sting in his heart. Aside from Aramis and Porthos, he didn't let people get close to him, nor did he feel the need to worry about others opinions of him. But with Eric, it had been different. He had not necessarily liked the man, but he had deeply respected him for the sincere and honest way he had treated himself and those around him.

The more the images of his butchered brothers-in-arms burned themselves into his mind, the more Athos' anger and frustration with Suard grew. Suard had taken it too far. He had been toying with lives that were not his to play with.

While Suard might have seen these men as acceptable casualties in his own personal vendetta against Aramis and what secrets he may or may not possess, Athos had memories flooding his mind. Memories of Dorian, whose wife had so graciously provided them something to eat when the King had been late with their wages.

Dénis, who had arrived late to guard duty because his little brother had fallen from a roof and broken his leg.

Pierre, whom Aramis and Porthos had loved to tease when he once again had failed to regain control over Cesar, one of the garrison's most ill-tempered horses.

And Eric, whose death would hit Guillaume hard. They had been inseparable ever since they had received their commission over a year ago, and Tréville had always referred to them as another Damon and Pythias because of their close friendship. But all of them were now decorating this grotesque scene, and they all had died trying to protect each other. Given their lives, so far away from home.

"You see anyone else?" Théo asked impatiently, trying to keep his voice low. "How many did you say they were?"

"Seven," Athos replied shortly. "That leaves Philippe, Arthur and Aramis."

While hope for his lost friend sparked up again in Athos' chest, he also could not ignore the queasy feeling in his guts. Aramis either had made it out of here, or he was buried so deep under the rubble that they hadn't managed to reach him yet. Athos, who kept going on pure adrenaline and willpower alone, started to shovel the rubble away with his hands.

Théo, on the other hand, didn't move an inch.

"Would you…?" Athos began tersely, but Théo just brought a finger to his lips. Athos shut up immediately and froze in his motion. He heard it too. Voices, talking to each other, clearly in panic and clearly nearby.

"English," Théo stated, his voice trembling with fear.

Athos' eyes were still glued to the bodies of the musketeers in front of him, clasping the hilt of his rapier even tighter, ready to fight. "How many?"

Théo carefully peeked around the corner. "At least a dozen. We don't stand a chance."

It was a decision Athos had to make within a split second, with Théo's questioning gaze resting on him.

"Out," Athos hissed, "Quickly." Even though every fiber of his being screamed at him not to leave anyone behind, he knew that it would only result in his and Théo's death if they stayed, or worse, tried to take on the English soldiers. Yes, they were injured too, and on the run on top of it, but they still outnumbered the two musketeers. By far.

Athos climbed back over the piles of rubble, making sure not to get too close to those still smoldering, and he felt Théo following closely behind him. Together, they made their way passed the bodies of the men who had fallen victim to the cannons and towards the line of trees indicating their way back to the fortress.

Athos felt the blood pounding heavily through his arm and head, and black spots were dancing in front of his eyes, but his feet moved over the ground swiftly, causing as little noise as possible.

Théo and Athos stood side by side behind some larger bushes, watching as the English soldiers discovered the ruins of the farmhouse and started investigating it themselves. They were moving slowly and carefully, some of them were visibly wounded, but they didn't show any pleasure at what they found, at least not from what Athos could tell at this distance, and they soon moved on. He had to remember that these men were experiencing the exact same thing as the musketeers. On the run, under attack. They had suffered on this island too.

"Athos!" Porthos' voice cut through the haze in Athos' brain and Athos whirled around. Standing about twenty feet away from him was none other than General Suard, with a pistol raised high, aiming directly at Athos. And behind him, only a short distance away, was Porthos, holding his own pistol close to the General's head.

"Nice try," Porthos commented, taking a small step forward and snatching the pistol out of his commander's hands. "Though I expected you to have more guts and at least face the man you intended to kill."

"You followed me here," Suard concluded, his hands raised in his ultimate defeat. His voice was dangerously calm.

"You can be read like an open book, Sir," Athos explained as he raised his own pistol and aimed it at Suard. "You wanted to clean up. To eliminate everyone who knows about this mess, about your personal vendetta against the King and everyone affiliated with him. You sent those men to die."

"After you got rid of Aramis, Athos was the logical next target. And him, on his own, only being accompanied by Théo, was more than inviting for you, wasn't it?" Porthos looked downright furious, and his voice was filled with pain and the longing to understand.

"You overstepped your boundaries, musketeers," Suard answered coldly. "You questioned orders, endangered our position because of your senseless moral code, and dug your noses into affairs that are none of your concern."

Athos had to respect Suard for one thing– he was not denying he had just tried to murder Athos. He could have said he wanted to rescue Athos, and was preparing his shot for an English enemy, but no, he chose to admit the ruthless and cold-blooded murder he had just attempted.

Suddenly, Athos felt Théo right next to him, and though the musketeer had no idea about what exactly had happened between Athos, Porthos and the General, he chose to speak up.

"With all due respect, Sir, it was _your_ orders that got a lot of good musketeers killed. It was _your_ decision that led to us having to choose between starving ourselves or allowing innocent people to starve. This was none of the musketeers doing. We have been too busy with surviving to pay attention to your incompetence against Lord Eadmund."

Athos was surprised. Théo was not one for questioning orders, nor was he one for challenging authority. But after what they had just seen in the ruins of the farmhouse, Théo's perspective apparently had changed.

"You don't even know what you're talking about," Suard scoffed.

Athos had a hard time controlling his temper, but he managed, though the arm with his pistol was trembling noticeably. "There are at least four men butchered in there, torn apart by cannons." His cold eyes looked straight into Suard's. "Good men. Loyal men. Sent to their death by the man who was supposed to guide them, protect them." Athos' voice was filled with hatred.

"You are soldiers, not some young farm boys!" the General shot back loudly.

"Quiet. There are at least a dozen English soldiers around," Athos hissed.

"The English would not have come so far if Aramis and his marksmen would have done their bloody job!" Suard cursed.

"It's hard to do your job when your own commander tries to kill you, you know," Porthos retorted angrily, "English cannons have the reputation of being rather deadly." He didn't even bother to look at Suard's reaction, he merely made sure to bring some distance between himself and the General, the barrel of his pistol still aimed at Suard's head.

"Whatever it is that you have been doing, you should know that we take an assassination attempt on one of our own rather personally," Athos added slowly, not lowering his pistol an inch.

Suard looked like a wounded predator. "Look around you. Your head is so full of conspiracy that you can't look the fact in the eyes. The English did this. They tore this shelter to shreds and…"

"And you knew about their position," Athos interrupted bitterly, as he felt the last tiny bit of respect for Suard fade away. "You knew what would happen if the English saw French marksmen shooting from here. It was a set up."

"How dare…"

"It's over, General. You'll come back with us, but you are no longer in charge."

Suard's eyes flashed with hatred. "I'll have your heads for this."

Athos gave a hint of a smile, and on his pale and bloodied face, it looked a lot scarier than usual. "That will be for the King to decide. And I heard you two are not on the best terms."

If looks could kill, Athos would have dropped dead on the spot, but instead, Théo stepped forward, grabbed Suard by the shoulder and pointed his pistol at the General's head, gesturing to Porthos and Athos that they could drop their weapons.

Athos lowered his, and Porthos was by his side, grabbing his friend by the forearm. "Aramis?" he asked anxiously, and Athos just shook his head.

"We didn't find him," he croaked as he felt the adrenaline fade away and his body giving in to the exhaustion and the pain of his injuries.

An expression of despair crossed Porthos' face, but he just grabbed Athos' good arm and offered support. "We have to get back. We will find him."

Together, they followed Théo and Suard back to the fortress, and Athos couldn't help but keep his gaze locked on the smoking building for as long as possible.

_We'll come back_, Athos thought, as the guilt of leaving possible survivors behind tore his heart to shreds. _We'll come back for you._

* * *

_Thank you for reading. I'll do my best to get the next chapter done soon. Take care of yourselves, take care of each other. Stay safe._


	23. Stand Unshaken

**XXIII. Stand Unshaken**

The sun was beginning to disappear behind the distant horizon, painting the sea in its dark golden light when the outlines of the musketeer fortress came into sight. Théo kept pushing Suard forward, and Porthos followed with Athos only a few lengths behind them.

Athos' heart was pounding heavily as fear crept over him from the sheer silence that surrounded the fortress. He exchanged a quick look with Porthos, noticing the worried frown on his brother's face.

"Hold!" That was Guillaume's voice, and Athos was sure that there were weapons pointed at them.

"Easy, it's us!" Porthos yelled back.

"Porthos?" Guillaume, wherever he was, did not sound convinced, and it increased Athos' worry even further.

"Yes, damn it, lower your weapons and open the gate!" Porthos answered, and luckily, their comrade complied. With an awful creaking sound, the gate opened just enough to let a man through, and Guillaume appeared in the open space and started walking towards them. A surprised expression crossed his face when he saw General Suard and Théo, but he chose to look at Athos as he approached them.

"What happened?" Athos demanded to know immediately.

"Six Englishmen. None of the civilians were harmed; they claim that the English were hesitant to hurt them." He shrugged. "You care to explain what you did to our commander?" There was no reproach in his words, it was more a strangely indifferent curiosity.

"Suard tried to kill Athos, and he got some of the marksmen killed," Porthos explained very shortly.

Guillaume released a stuttering breath. "So I believe it's also thanks to him that you arrived so late in Saint-Blanceau?"

Athos just nodded. "He used you as a distraction."

Guillaumes eyes wandered towards Suard, still kept at gunpoint in front of Théo, and he hesitantly made a few steps towards him. "Is that true?"

Suard audibly gritted his teeth. "Strategically, it made the most sense. Yes, it's true." He narrowed his eyes. "Your comrades just admitted to insubordination and mutiny. Are you an obedient and loyal soldier, or do you just want to stand by and watch this happen?"

Athos felt his right hand snap towards his own weapon in an attempt to silence Suard, but he needn't have worried. Guillaume tilted his head. "We lost about a dozen men on that beach. Losses that could have been averted if you wouldn't have waited there to save your own skin. This has nothing to do with insubordination or mutiny." He straightened back up and exchanged a quick look with Athos and Porthos. "It's about surviving. And we won't survive this with you in command."

Théo sent Athos a questioning look, and the swordsman managed a stiff nod. Théo passed through the open gates, keeping Suard in front of him.

"Come," Guillaume said mildly and gestured towards the gate. "Quickly, before any English soldiers come back."

Athos and Porthos quickly followed him inside the safety of the walls, and the gate was closed shortly after. Porthos leaned onto his knees, taking in a deep breath, while Athos was frozen on the spot, his eyes glued to the much diminished number of musketeers scattered all over the fortress. Most of them were sitting on the ground, surrounded by caring civilians and worried comrades. Some looked worse than others. How many men had they lost today? And how were they supposed to prevail against Buckingham _and_ Lord Eadmund?

Athos feared that should Buckingham's siege of the citadel continue to be unsuccessful, the frustrated Duke would unite his forces with Lord Eadmund again and take out the few musketeers that were left here at the fortress. It wouldn't require much of an effort. He believed the English considered taking the citadel too important to just be abandoned, but Décart had successfully defended the position for weeks now. Buckingham too would be having his fair share of problems concerning supplies or wounded men and looking for a way to break the stalemate.

Athos spotted Mathis on on his knees, next to a few other musketeers surrounding someone on the ground. Mathis instantly leapt to his feet with an energy Athos could only envy. He himself was shaking, and his wet clothes had drained the last bit of energy he had had. His arm was on fire, and his muscles were strained and exhausted.

Mathis walked straight towards them, coming to a slithering halt in the sand.

"Where's Aramis?" Mathis greeted them instantly, getting straight to the point. "We need a medic. Robert needs urgent treatment and…"

"He might be dead," Athos cut him off harshly and staggered towards the wall. "All the marksmen might be dead."

Athos felt his legs giving in and his fingers desperately tried to get a hold on the wooden posts of the fortress walls. Black spots were dancing in front of his vision and Mathis' voice as well as Porthos' unusual calm words sounded as if they were far away. The last thing he saw were the bodies butchered by the English cannons in front of his inner eye before he fell into darkness.

* * *

"Athos, hey!" Somebody was waving in front of his face, and gently slapping his cheek. "Come on." _Porthos_, Athos recognized.

He slowly opened his eyes and blinked rapidly to clear his blurred vision.

"What?" he croaked back at Porthos who hadn't stopped calling his name.

"You blacked out." That was Mathis' calm voice. The young musketeer was standing in front of Athos, casting worried glances towards his friend. By the looks of it, Athos couldn't have been out for long. A few minutes, maybe. In a way, he felt embarrassed, but he suppressed the sentiment and chose to admit his physical exhaustion. His emotional one was a different matter. He groaned and tried to sit up, feeling Porthos' hand at his shoulder helping him.

"It's alright. It's your arm, I believe. Those wounds aren't healing." Porthos sent Athos a stern glare. "Aramis was right. You should have been resting."

"Resting is a luxury we cannot afford," Athos growled and ran a hand over his face.

Porthos turned towards Mathis on his other side. "I do so hate it when he's right." His flippant remark lacked its usual good-natured agreeability, indicating how far from fit Porthos himself was.

"Where's Suard?" Athos groaned.

"In front of the medical tent," Porthos answered briefly. "Théo's watching him."

"So, what now?" Mathis asked and handed Athos a cup filled with clear water, which the swordsman took gratefully and dumped down his throat at an instant.

"Now," Athos panted and grimaced when he leaned onto his injured arm to get up, "now we inform the others. And you," he glanced at Mathis, "pass the word. Everyone deserves to know why we brought our own commanding officer back at gunpoint."

* * *

When the night fell and their camp was lit only by torches rammed into the sand, the surviving musketeers gathered, longing for new orders. For an update on the entire situation.

It was Mathis who took it on himself to speak to the remaining musketeers. He gathered the men around the medic tent, and the civilians came too, taking the places between the soldiers. Some of them gave the musketeers a helping hand, others merely stood there, trying to be a comforting presence in all that was going on around them. Athos had sat down near the wall, leaning against it, trying to give his body a bit of the rest it so desperately craved. Porthos, as usual, was by his side.

Mathis shortly explained what Athos and Porthos had decided to do about Suard, and apart from two men, one musketeer as well as the cadet Frédéric, nobody spoke up in their commander's defense. Athos released a stuttering breath of relief. He had feared the musketeers unity would be distorted, but strangely, all of them seemed closer than ever. And most of them even supported Athos' and Porthos' little revolt.

When Mathis had finished, he pulled out a small piece of paper, one he and Athos together with Porthos and Théo had prepared only a few minutes ago. It was a new list, with the current status of each musketeer.

"We have chased the English off Saint-Blanceau," Mathis continued with an unsteady voice, sending uncertain glances towards Athos, who just nodded reassuringly. "But we don't have the men to hold the beach should they return." Another pause, and Mathis gulped before he began reading the list. He read at least ten names before he looked up again, confirming the fate of their comrades with the simple words: "Fallen in battle."

Even the civilians couldn't hide the sheer shock. Athos could see Lucien's face pale and many of the women were clinging to each other, searching for support and strength. A soft murmur spread through the rows until Mathis spoke again.

"From those who fought at Saint-Blanceau, there are five men who are still missing and whose fate is uncertain." He looked at the list and named the five soldiers. He took a deep breath, looked at Porthos and Athos for reassurance and continued, the eyes of all the musketeers glued to the young man's face.

"General Suard also sent a group of marksmen towards a farmhouse near the cliffs, to cut off the English escape route. The house was destroyed by English cannons from the ships." Mathis' tone was surprisingly calm and sober. "We have reason to believe the General knew the English ships were there and for reasons of his own sent the marksmen into a trap. Athos and Théo have investigated the fate of our friends."

"What about them?" Guillaume spoke up amidst the crowd of musketeers. "Did they make it out of there?" Athos noticed how he sent hateful glares towards Suard, who was watching the whole scene in silence, his face resembling a mask of stone.

"I have to report you the deaths of the musketeers Eric, Dénis, and Dorian, as well as the cadet Pierre," Mathis continued with a low voice. "Athos and Théo found them in the ruins of the destroyed farmhouse. Aramis, Arthur and Philippe are missing." A shudder ran down Athos' back. He, and especially Porthos, had insisted those three be listed as missing. Though there was a possibility they were buried underneath the ruins, there was also the slight chance that they had escaped, and that they were still alive somewhere on this damn island.

Athos had to watch all color drain from Guillaume's face, and his eyes slowly and dangerously turned towards Suard.

"Porthos," Athos murmured warningly, knowing he was of no use right now, but his friend had already noticed.

Guillaume, his eyes filled with tears and anger, had leapt toward Suard, with his main gauche ready to slice their commander's throat. Porthos ran over and blocked the musketeer's way, grabbing the man by the upper arms.

"Who are you to decide whose lives are worth saving?" Guillaume spat into the commander's face, while Porthos' strong arms still kept him at bay. "Why did you try to get us all killed?"

"Calm down, Guillaume," Porthos growled, but Guillaume continued to struggle.

"I…We deserve answers," Guillaume was unraveling, completely lost in his sorrow and despair.

Porthos violently shook his friend and steadied him, looking him straight in the eye. "We are far from perfect, but we're not like him. We are not murderers, we are not cold-blooded killers. He will face court-martial in Paris."

Athos now too had slowly approached and kept some distance between himself and Guillaume, fearing what else the musketeer might do. "He will be brought to justice, Guillaume. For Gino, for the civilians who died because of him, for Eric and the others."

Guillaume appeared to go limp, Porthos' arms seemingly being the only thing keeping him in an upright position. His pale eyes darted towards Athos, almost looking hostile, but with a tinge of defeat. "We both know it isn't justice that's reigning in Paris. Suard is noble. He will never get the punishment a man of lower birth would get."

"Killing him, as much as I'd love to assist you with it, is not an option," Athos spoke, his voice leaving no room for an argument. Guillaume slowly nodded, almost as if he understood, and slowly moved back into the crowd of musketeers.

Athos felt the stares of all the soldiers on him, and he knew that with Suard removed from command, they were searching for someone to give any orders. For someone to take on the responsibility, the burden nobody wanted to bear.

Athos tiredly raised his voice. "We have to get a little bit of rest, and then, we will go and secure this part of the island."

_And search for survivors_, he added in his mind.

* * *

"Monsieur? Do you hear me?" A deep voice called out to him, but Aramis couldn't place it. He did not recognize it. He felt someone gently shake his shoulders, and suddenly his eyes snapped open when realization hit him.

He was still in the small hollow by the cliffs, with Philippe's body to his right and Arthur's limp frame to his left. But there was a fourth person in the hollow with them, and Aramis' hand instinctively flew to his dagger.

"Easy," the man said. "I am here to help." Aramis narrowed his eyes and took a closer look. The man was about Treville's age, with his brown, shoulder-length hair already streaked with grey. He had dark circles under his kind, blue eyes and the jacket he wore was much too big for his lean body. Aramis knew the face, but he could not place it. He had seen him before, but he didn't remember when.

"We heard the cannons attack," the man continued to explain. "I thought we should look for survivors. I already guessed that you musketeers were the target this time. Why else would they be attacking an empty farmhouse?"

Aramis still tried to process all of it, and suddenly, the memory returned. He remembered being on the hills near the musketeer camp, together with Arthur, Athos and Suard. And a boy with his father, seeking shelter.

The father's eyes, which had been filled with desperation and anger at the time when Aramis and Athos had had to send them away on Suard's orders, were now filled with a numbness. With pain.

Aramis did not need to ask what had happened to the boy. To Jacques.

"I am so sorry." Aramis' voice broke. "We should have…"

The stranger looked up, realizing that Aramis had understood. "You had other orders, I heard your commander. I don't blame you." The man pressed his lips into a thin line. "Tell me, how can we help you?"

Aramis furrowed his brow. "We?"

"When you musketeers cleared Saint-Blanceau, the captured citizen of Ré Island were able to flee. I have found shelter with others who were hiding from the English and the French. You all need medical attention. We don't have much, but there are some supplies we gathered out of what once used to be Cévry." He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a bag filled with water and some fruit.

"Here. It is all we have been able to spare."

"Where are you hiding?" Aramis wanted to know, sitting up properly now and ignoring the aching pain in his back.

A crooked and empty smile formed on the man's face and his gaze wandered towards the ground. "I think we both know I am not going to share that information."

"Listen," Aramis started, and with a side-glance on Arthur, he noticed that his friend was awake now too. "I don't ask you to trust me. I have no right to ask that from you. But if you and the others go to the musketeers' fortress, there will be help offered to you."

An angry expression crossed the father's face. "Even if we made it through the forest to the other side of the island to this fortress, your commander denied my son his help once. I'm a good judge of character. He'll deny it again."

"I didn't say ask the commander to help you," Aramis replied bitterly. "Ask for the musketeers Athos and Porthos. They will grant you shelter."

"We did fairly good on our own," the man snapped rudely. "It cost too much, but we're surviving." He closed his mouth and slowly let his gaze wander over the three musketeers again. He seemed to realize that now was neither the time nor the place for arguments or accusations. Philippe was still unconscious, Arthur was continuously painting the sand red with his blood, and Aramis had little to no physical strength left.

The man cleared his throat. "I'm alone, so I can probably only take one of you, for now. I will come back should the English let me."

"Take him," Aramis nodded towards Arthur, who looked like he was barely aware of his surroundings. "And try to save him."

The man raised his eyebrow. "The other one looks even worse, if that's possible."

"But Arthur here still has a chance of surviving his wounds." Aramis could hear himself say it, but it didn't quite reach his brain. It was one life versus the other. Not fair, but he had to stay rational if he wanted to save one of them. And his mind and his heart both knew that Philippe was beyond saving.

The man nodded and put Arthur's arm around his neck. Arthur was so pale and weakened by the blood loss he barely noticed it, but he reached out to Aramis and the marksman grabbed his hand and squeezed it.

"God bless you," Aramis said to their savior and brought a hand to his heart, in an honest gesture of gratitude.

"You know, I thought I should hate you," the old man said and turned his head one last time. "For what you did to my boy. But deep down, I have the feeling you are a good man. A good man, who tried his best, even if the circumstances required tough decisions. In the end, we're all just tryin' to leave this godforsaken place, aren't we?"

Aramis nodded stiffly.

"If the English don't kill me before then, I'll send help for you," the man continued. "Until then, keep your head low, and your wounds clean. And pray." He shook his head and continued to walk away.

* * *

_Athos was ankle-deep in bright, green grass. The smell of flowers and rain hung in the air, and he heard the wind soflty brushing through the branches and leaves as he stood in front of his home. It seemed to be late summer, and the sun was high up in the sky, bathing his estate in a warm, golden light. _

_A scream destroyed the aura of color and peacefulness around him. The green turned to grey, and the smell of flowers became a stench of death. _

_Athos made a step into his house, confused and on high alert. _

_Another scream tore through the air and Athos was spurred into action, taking two steps at once. The air felt a lot colder when he reached the end of the staircase and he ran around the corner, where he came to an instant and violent stop. _

_The sight before him was shattering. The woman he loved, with her wild, beautiful locks over her shoulders, stood near the wall, the blade streaked with blood still in her shaking hands. _

_His gaze wandered down to the ground where his eyes found his younger brother. Thomas was lying in a pool of his own blood, the stab wound still leaking and his eyes were closed, his mouth still open with his last call for help. _

_Athos wanted to leap forward, towards his brother, towards his wife, but suddenly, none of them were there anymore. _

_The scenery changed and he found himself standing on a pile of burning wood and the walls around him seemed to explode. The sound was deafening, but yet he was unable to move. Where the body of Thomas had been only moments earlier was now another body, covered in rubble and charred wood, the eyes staring blankly into space. A phantom fist punched into Athos' chest when he recognized Aramis. He tried to move forward, tried to reach his friend and help him, but his feet were held fast on the fire. He turned his head to call for help, but instead, he saw two people engaged in a life and death duel. He would recognize the fighting style anywhere, and he could do nothing but watch as Porthos was disarmed by his opponent, a shorter man with an impressive armor in which Athos recognized the face of General Suard. _

_Athos was yelling angrily, as he tried desperately to break free of his frozen state, but the invisible bounds were strong and he could do nothing. He kept struggling and after what felt like half an eternity, he was free, and he jumped down from the pile of wood and started running towards Suard and Porthos, with his sword drawn, ready to do what was necessary. _

"Athos!" It was Mathis' voice that pulled him out of the dream. Athos' eyes snapped open and his upper body bolted upright. His forehead and chest was bathed in sweat and he blinked rapidly, trying to dispel the images that had burned themselves into his inner eye.

"Athos!" Mathis called again, and the young musketeer stepped into Athos' eyesight and furrowed his brow. "Are…are you alright?"

"Yes," Athos lied and got up to his knees. "What is it?"

"Porthos has ordered a patrol to secure the area between the fortress and Cévry. They found somebody." If Athos wasn't mistaken, there was a spark of hope in Mathis' eyes. "Come. I thought you should have a look."

* * *

_Thank you to jmp for the kind review, I really appreciate it!_


	24. Lord Buckingham

**XIV. Lord Buckingham**

"Is…is anyone…there?" the murmured words startled Aramis, and he twitched violently. He swallowed multiple times to get some fluid back in his dry mouth and his head jerked sideways, finding the source of the voice.

Philippe had woken up. Barely, so it seemed, and he was more a ghost than a man. The pale, white face was a stark contrast to the dark grey surface of the rock, and the bloodied flesh in his face seemed like a grotesque painting. It was the long and deep wound in his guts that drained the blood, but Aramis knew that it was the missing sight that would scare the musketeer the most.

Aramis slowly and gently reached out with his shaking hands and carefully took Philippe's hand into his own. "Philippe?"

"Aramis?" The marksman sounded so confused it shattered Aramis' heart. He could see how Philippe's hand almost reached for the place where his eyes were supposed to be, but he turned out to be too weak. He gathered all his strength to speak. "Is that you?"

"It's me," Aramis confirmed, and tried his very best to hide the anxiety and the dismay in his voice. His voice might just be the only thing to ground Philippe on this beach. The beach he would never leave.

"Where…where are we?" Philippe's voice was barely more than a whisper, but he seemed to trust Aramis' voice, and the musketeer felt Philippe's grip tighten around his wrist.

Aramis pressed his lips into a thin line. "I don't know. The beach somewhere. Safe from the English, for now."

Philippe's free hand wandered down his own torso and he gasped when he felt the leaking blood coming from the wound in his lower stomach. He didn't even seem to register the pain of his broken arm.

"If it weren't for you, none of us would have made it," Aramis continued hastily, trying to distract Philippe from the unavoidable fate. "Thank you. And…I'm sorry."

Even though Aramis knew he should not take the blame for the death of the marksmen, he could not help but take the responsibility. His medical skills had been of no use, and he had known that Suard had been after him. The utter brutality of the truth, the truth that all those marksmen were dead because Suard had wanted to kill him, was a burden he wasn't going to shake off so easily.

"I…my eyes…," Philippe stuttered helplessly, and his friend's despair and his own sorrow brought tears to Aramis' eyes. His vision swam and he used his sleeve to wipe the tears away.

"I know," Aramis whispered, trying to be of comfort, and knowing he was failing miserably. "Tell me, what can I do?" He did not like how helpless he sounded, but he wasn't ashamed of it either. This was beyond his medical skills, and this was not a situation they had trained for. Not a situation they had expected.

"Don't let me die alone in this cursed place." Philippe's voice was shaking with fear, a fear Aramis could not even imagine. Philippe could only feel the blood leave his body, only feel the pain his wounds caused him, and only hear the silence that surrounded him and Aramis. He could not see the absolute beauty of the sky, with the moon being partly veiled by thick clouds. The horizon was beginning to light up, announcing a new dawn.

Aramis would have said something among the lines of "Hold on" or "Just a little longer" but the words wouldn't come to him. Instead, he grabbed Philippe's hand a little tighter, giving his friend the reassurance a wounded soldier desperately craves in the midst of darkness and pain.

Aramis stayed and talked to Philippe for the next, excruciating, half an hour. He didn't receive many answers, but he knew that it was his voice that grounded Philippe as the tension in his comrade's body continued to fade. When Philippe went limp, and the body was unable to take the burning pain anymore, the musketeer's head rolled to the side, facing the ocean now being filled with dark orange light of the rising sun. Aramis carefully put Philippe's hand on his chest and ran his hand over the dirty musketeer pauldron on his shoulder. Cannons, fire, falling and bleeding. Despite all, it was still intact.

Aramis didn't believe that the old man would come back, and he could not hold it against him. It would be difficult enough to get Arthur to safety, and Aramis just prayed that he had made the right decision.

Aramis did not pin his hopes on a stranger he barely knew. He had served as a soldier long enough to know that would be foolish. But something told him that Athos and Porthos were alive, and that they would not leave him here to die. With a heavy heart, Aramis brought his bloodied hand to his lips and then to Philippe's forehead, bidding him farewell and asking forgiveness.

"Go with God, my friend."

He murmured a short prayer, then he put both hands against the stony wall, slowly lifting himself on his knees and after some cursing and a few false starts, he made it up to his feet. The exhaustion, the dehydration and sleep deprivation tried to pull him back to the ground, but he resisted. He kept staggering over the sand, gaining more strength with every step he was able to take. Determination and anger took over, and he kept marching north. Very slowly, but he was moving forward.

They had to be out there. Athos, and Porthos. Somewhere. He had never given up on them, and he still believed in the three of them reentering the gates of Paris. Together.

He did not know if he could find them. But he had to try.

* * *

Athos followed Mathis through the open gate, still trying to forget the horrific images that flashed in front of his inner eye. On top of all that was going on, he seemed to be losing his mind now too.

He did not know what to expect, but finding Porthos and Guillaume in the open area close to Cévry, arguing and gesturing towards a woman wasn't exactly matching his expectations. The tiny hope in his heart that the mysterious 'somebody' was one of the missing musketeers was crushed, but he tried his best not to show it.

He approached quickly, his good hand on the hilt of his weapon, his brow furrowed. He cleared his throat to make himself known and looked at Porthos, waiting for an explanation.

His friend caught his gaze and took a step back, making a wide gesture towards the woman. Out of the corner of his eye, Athos caught a movement behind the trees. The woman wasn't alone.

"She knew where to find us," Porthos explained. "There are four of them. She said she was sent here." He made a gesture towards the other three people who had come forward to stand behind the woman. Their body language spoke volumes – with their arms protectively around their middles, the head up high and the muscles tense, they were scared. Scared of the musketeers.

"How?" Athos asked sharply and looked at the woman. She was approximately in her forties, the dark blonde hair tied loosely at her neck. The bruises on her skin and the blisters on her fingers spoke of the experience of the last week.

"He…" She swallowed nervously. "He said you would help us. That we're to ask for two men called Athos and Porthos."

All alarm bells went off in Athos' head and he grabbed her by the hand, a little more forceful than he had intended. He let go immediately and took a step back.

"Who told you that?" he asked, trying hard to maintain the calm and composed tone in his voice.

"He…I don't know his name. But he rescued a musketeer called Arthur, I believe," the woman answered slowly. "I've only been with them for about two days."

Athos' head turned towards Mathis. "Get those people inside the fortress," he ordered, but Mathis didn't move an inch.

"What about Arthur?" he asked, and Athos once again asked himself what it was that connected those two men. They were friends, but there was a worry and a connection that went beyond that.

"Porthos and I will take care of it. You escort these people safely to the fortress." Athos turned to face the woman again, noticing how she shrank away when he reached out to her. "Where is this man, and the musketeer?"

She raised a shaking hand and pointed south. "A hideout, close to Cévry. About five more of us are there too."

Athos nodded and turned back towards Mathis again. "We'll gather those in Cévry." He grabbed Porthos by the arm and dragged him with him, before turning his head again while walking away, facing Mathis and Guillaume once again. "Get some men from the camp and secure the road," he ordered. "But watch out."

"Wait!" the woman called and quickly caught up with Athos again, with urgency written all over her face. "The English. They are around, we saw their banners, we saw their soldiers. If they spot us…"

Athos nodded. "I understand. Go back; let my comrade bring you to safety. We will bring the others."

Without waiting for another second, Porthos and Athos headed towards the direction of Cévry.

"This could be a trap, you know," Porthos threw in quickly as he hurried to keep up with Athos. "We're forgetting that some of these civilians could be Hugenots. They could hate us, because we represent the King, and they could side with Buckingham."

"I am aware," Athos replied, "but she mentioned Arthur, she mentioned a rescue. How would they know about him?"

"Perhaps they know what happened to Aramis too," Porthos guessed but Athos could almost hear his friend's doubts.

"Or they are responsible for his death." Athos found no way to sugarcoat it. It all seemed to be a bit too fortuitous for his taste. They were rarely that lucky.

"Look how far we've come," Porthos growled. "Suspecting suffering innocents of vicious crimes." He shook his heads to dispel the thought. Athos knew that Porthos was not accusing him of anything, he had started that thought after all.

"But again, what if it's a trap?" Porthos lowered his voice, taking his loaded weapon into his left hand.

Athos shot him a grim look. "Then I'll apologize."

He thought he saw the hint of a grin passing over Porthos' face, but it died down as soon as they reached what was left of Cévry. The place had obviously been raided, whether by English soldiers, French ones or civilians, Athos did not know. It wasn't important now.

Porthos brought a finger to his lips and then to his ears. Athos heard it too. Voices, quietly arguing, and the language was definitely French.

Athos took a few steps forward. They were standing close to the village's forge. That was the place Athos would choose as a hideout. With weapons, to defend himself. Next to the forge, leaning against the stony wall, was a pair of boots, and a bloodied hand was resting on the ground next to them. Athos slowed down.

_Someone's there_, he mouthed towards Porthos, and his friend nodded before he rounded the forge carefully. Once Porthos had his eyes on the unknown figure, his eyes went wide with worry and disbelief.

"Arthur?" Porthos hissed, and a sudden movement behind the door connecting the forge with the blacksmith's private home led to Athos grabbing his pistol and Porthos raising his arms menacingly.

A man had emerged from the shadows, an older man, with blood-stained hands and clothes, armed with nothing but an iron rod. When his sad, blue eyes found their uniforms, he lowered the rod only a little bit. Athos walked up next to Porthos, and he cast a quick glance towards the unmoving figure near the forge.

Arthur was white as a sheet, and his chest was covered in blood-stained bandages. There was blood all over the ground.

"Musketeers," the man in the doorway said slowly, and his voice didn't show any sign of threats. "So the others found you?"

"You are in need of help?" Athos countered. He phrased it like a question, but it was a statement. "We are here to escort you to the fortress."

The man just looked at them, and recognition dawned on Athos. He knew this man. He had seen him before when he had been forced to send him away. Judging by the fact that his son was nowhere to be seen, Athos could guess the rest of the story, and he did not ask. Out of respect, and out of guilt.

The man narrowed his eyes, still keeping his 'weapon' up high. "Athos or Porthos, I presume?"

Athos didn't move a muscle, but Porthos took over. "Yes." The musketeer didn't bother to introduce them, nor did he specify which musketeer was which. And Athos understood. He feared that the man might be holding a grudge after all.

"Two of your comrades are at the cliffs, beyond the destroyed farmhouse. Had to leave them behind."

Athos and Porthos shared a brief, but meaningful look and Athos felt as if a tiny bit of the weight had been lifted off his weary shoulders. Aramis and Philippe were alive, so it seemed. And as much as this news filled his heart with new hope, he had to keep his focus.

"One thing at a time," Athos explained. "Come."

"You are only two," a young woman who had come out to kneel next to Arthur said, with her eyes wide open.

Athos' face darkened. "We two are all you are going to get if you don't move soon. Reinforcements are securing the road."

Without even bothering to argue further, he led the way back through the forest. He knew that Porthos would make sure all of them were following, and that Arthur was transported as safely as possible. On the whole way back, Athos kept his good arm on the hilt of his weapon, every muscle in his body prepared to leap into action if necessary. About halfway to the fortress, they encountered a large group of musketeers, led by Mathis and Guillaume, and with all of the rescued civilians and Arthur between them, they carefully but quickly moved towards the wooden fortress near the cliffs.

"Arthur?" Mathis' voice was filled with concern as he laid eyes upon his bloodied comrade. He made a step forward to take one of the civilian's places in supporting the limp musketeer, but Athos intervened.

"He's alive, Mathis. If we are able to give him the care he needs, he should make it. But I need you to stay focused now." He held eye contact with Mathis in order to pressure his request.

Mathis nodded briefly, though Athos could see he was biting down remarks he had on his lips, but they wordlessly continued to run down the path.

They had almost made it back, with the fortress in plain sight, when Mathis grabbed Athos' by the shoulder. "You hear that?"

Athos exhaled slowly, and the time seemed to move a bit more slowly as he spotted movements out of the corner of his eye. In one motion, Athos pulled out his rapier and dagger.

"Ambush!" Porthos' yell tore through the air and Athos whirled around on the spot, his eyes wide. Suddenly, one musket ball after the other hissed through the air around the musketeers and civilians, burying themselves in the ground and the trees.

For a short moment, the surprised panic caused rampant chaos. Some musketeers dove into cover behind trees or rocks, others threw themselves in front of the unarmed citizen, and some even fired back blindly, wasting bullets on a target that had not revealed itself.

Athos cursed, grabbed the old man who had rescued Arthur by the shoulder and pulled him to the ground as another hail of bullets rained down on them.

"Take your formations, protect these people!" Porthos bellowed and Athos could feel his brother by his side, pulling him swiftly to his feet.

Athos dared to throw a quick look towards their fortress, maybe a hundred meters away. They just had to get there. But right now, they were the only thing standing between Buckingham and the civilians.

"The gates are closed!" Mathis yelled desperately and took a step to the side just in time to avoid being stabbed in the neck. "The civilians are scared. They locked themselves in for protection!"

"I'll go." The old man ducked his head and ran towards the fortress, apparently trusting the musketeers to make sure he wouldn't get shot in the back.

The fighting didn't give Athos one second to breathe. The red face of an angry, but already wounded English soldier appeared in front of him, and landed a strike against Athos' pauldron. Athos hissed when the pain erupted through his injured arm as he raised it to defend himself. He used his elbow to bring some distance between himself and his attacker. He didn't allow himself to give in to the pain in his arm and instead, he gathered all of his strength and forced the man to drop his blade with a trained and swift move of his own rapier.

"Athos!" Porthos shouting reached his ears and he turned his head to look for his friend.

Porthos was using his fist to knock an English assailant unconscious, but his other hand was waving towards the trees from where the attackers had emerged.

"That's Buckingham! Those are Buckinghams troops!" Athos followed his gaze and his eyes eventually fell on a few riders, hidden behind the thicker branches of the trees. They were watching from a distance, but Athos would recognize the armor everywhere. Just like he had when Buckingham had landed in Saint-Blanceau all these weeks ago.

Athos knew it was foolish, but his feet unconsciously carried him towards the treeline, as if attacking Buckingham or the Butcher would make up for the pain they had endured the past weeks. He did not get very far. Two English soldiers crossed his path, one who lashed out with his rapier so quickly Athos could only thank his instincts that the blade missed him by a hair's breadth.

Athos tightened the grip around his rapier and parried the next strike so effectively it threw the attacker off balance and into the blade of one of the remaining cadets. The answer of the second English soldier followed shortly after in form of an attempted stab, but Athos caught the blade and disarmed his opponent. Before Athos had the chance to finish the duel, the man's fist connected with his chin and he stumbled backwards, and the only reason he had been able to maintain his balance was due to one of his own men being thrown against him from behind.

Athos straightened up again and faced the Englishman, when suddenly, the man's facial expression turned to shock and his mouth opened to a silent cry of pain. He heard the disgusting sound of metal being pulled out of flesh and the Englishman crumbled to the ground, revealing his killer behind him.

It was none other than Suard who lowered his blood-streaked blade and turned around immediately to face another English soldier. Athos felt no relief. He felt a surpressed panic and brought as much distance between himself and Suard as was possible in the chaos of clashing blades and falling men. He crossed blades with at least four more Englishmen on the way, dueling them with the little energy he had left. His useless, left side was targeted more often and he cursed that he had left Porthos' side earlier and exposed himself to his own weakness.

As Athos fought his way through to the rest of the musketeers, he could see the gate was now open. The old man seemed to have been successful. The civilians were now hurrying toward it, supporting Arthur, who was barely conscious. The musketeers were forming a defensive line in front of them. He turned abruptly and nearly collided with Théo.

"You couldn't have tied him somewhere?" Athos yelled, and kicked his opponent in the chest so he stumbled backwards, directly onto Théo's waiting blade. Within moments, Athos saw Porthos reappear by his side again, having his hands around the throat of an English marksman and using him as a shield against the numerous attacks of another opponent.

"What?" Théo didn't seem to follow, and he was busy parrying the harsh strikes of a tall Englishman.

"Suard!" Athos growled loudly, cursing as a new opponent broke his defense by kicking him hard against the knee.

Théo hesitated for one second to give Athos an irritated look. "Mathis just said it's urgent, and I didn't…I mean, he wouldn't have been able to defend himself should we lose."

Athos dove underneath his enemy's blade and grabbed the man's sword arm, causing enough distraction to finish the duel properly. And he cursed Théo for his reckless belief in the good will of General Suard.

"Your point?"

He could almost hear Théo's eye roll, but they had no time for further exchanges, and Athos definitely did not have the time to watch Suard's moves. This was Buckingham himself watching from behind his troops, with none other than Lord Eadmund by his side. In the shadow of those two Generals, Suard seemed like a small worry, but Athos knew that that was an illusion. Though he feared to get stabbed in the back by their murderous commanding officer, he had a feeling Suard wouldn't try it with all of the remaining musketeers around.

He felt Porthos at his back going down, struck against his armor by an English blade, and before his friend would face his own execution, Athos stabbed backwards, trusting Porthos completely to anticipate the movement and not get up. His blade sliced through flesh, and he didn't need to look to see the English attacker fall. The dull thud could be heard even over the constant clash of steel.

There was another sound that drew Athos' attention immediately, and a sensation that came with it. The earth was trembling, just a little bit, but enough to be a concern. Enough to announce Buckingham's next step.

"Riders!" he yelled as a warning when a group of five heavily armed horsemen broke out of the treeline and headed towards the newly established battle line. "Porthos!"

Porthos knew what to do by the tone in Athos' voice. He got rid of his opponent and looked up to see the riders too, grabbing the pistols of his former attacker and handing two of them to Athos. Counting on Mathis and Guillaume to cover them, Athos and Porthos stood side by side, each of them having a pistol in both hands.

"Now!" It took all of Athos' strength to keep his left arm high enough to pull the trigger, but on Porthos' command, all four pistols thundered over the battle scene. Two of the bullets hit the horses and knocked the riders out of the saddle, another hit one of the horsemen in the chest. The fourth one went straight into the ground, and Athos could only guess that it was the one his left hand had fired.

"Athos!" That was Mathis' voice, somewhere in Athos' back, and another shot echoed over the ground and knocked the fourth rider out of the saddle. The fifth rider's horse suddenly bolted, and he was distracted regaining the control over the animal. "The gate is open!"

Athos quickly threw a glance towards the fortress and saw the civilians were all safely inside. The gate remained open just enough for the musketeers to pass through. He took his chance, and he didn't wait one more second.

"Retreat!" His raspy voice barely made it over the noise of the ongoing duels, but the musketeers, now forming one protective line covering the path that led to the fortress, started running back towards their shelter with everything they had left.

"Retreat!" Porthos repeated a bit louder, and it spurred them into action even more. Athos too felt his feet running over the ground. He stumbled twice, but the sheer adrenaline kept him going and the musketeers were able to bring some distance between themselves and the English attackers, whose blades and bullets continued to follow them towards their shelter.

The musketeers squeezed through the gates as quickly as possible. One after the other stumbled through the gate and into the shelter and safety they so desperately craved.

Athos and Porthos followed last and they sprinted through the narrow space without a second to spare. Athos had felt the hiss of air close to his cheek where a bullet had barely missed him.

The loud creaking sound was accompanied by the sound of bursting wood, but then, finally, the doors closed and the civilians, led by Lucien, put the barricades in place.

They heard some English knock against the wooden gate, but the reinforcements they had installed some days ago were solid, and close to unbreakable without artillery. And artillery seemed to be the only thing Buckingham hadn't brought with him. Yet.

They were safe. For now. Athos closed his eyes, heard the blood rushing in his ears, and for a moment, the earth stood still. There was silence, there was no movement. Nothing. The pain radiated from his damaged arm, a burning pain that seared through his arm to his head. There was a dull pounding in his knee, but it wasn't enough to reach his senses properly. He only heard his own, harsh breathing.

The calmness, and the silence, didn't last long.

"Athos!" It was Porthos who had called him, and it was the tone in his friends voice that made Athos forget all else and look for Porthos. He found the musketeer close to the gate, in the area where they kept the horses. He was kneeling next to a withering figure on the ground. Athos recognized the armor, and he recognized the voice that called out for help.

General Suard.

For a moment, he had forgotten about their General, who had so foolishly tried to participate in the battle as well, for a purpose only he knew, though a purpose Athos could definitely guess.

Athos approached swiftly, though with a slight limp from his sprained knee, and narrowed his eyes. The General was bleeding heavily from two wounds in his chest, one close to his heart and another one a bit lower to the stomach. Gunshot wounds, so it seemed. He had probably been hit shortly before they had made it to the safety of the fortress, otherwise, there was no way he would have made it back here with those injuries.

The wounds were mortal. Athos knew it the moment he laid eyes on Suard.

"Get me a medic," Suard rasped as blood continued to drip out of his mouth and he grimaced when his fingers dug into the wound.

It was the irony that almost made Athos walk away. After all the man had done, he couldn't bring himself to care for the fate of their commanding officer, and as dark as it was, this was probably for the best.

But Suard was still a soldier in the service of France, in the service of the King. Even though Athos doubted his loyalties, he did not deserve to die like this, without being offered care. Without being offered help.

"A medic, damnit!" Suard repeated and glared at Athos for his apparent idleness, but Athos, as well as Porthos, just looked at him.

"There is no medic. You got all of them killed." Porthos' words stung badly in Athos' heart, and the images of the past weeks flew past his inner eye, but it was this irony that Suard had sealed his own fate that made him believe perhaps they would make it after all.

The short expression of shock on Suard's face didn't stay long. He slowly lifted his gaze, facing Athos with a certain defiance. "I saved those people." He gasped for air, his head sinking against a wooden pillar in defeat. "Look where it got me."

Athos did not know whether that was a plea for forgiveness or merely Suard trying to redirect the blame. Truth was, it didn't matter. Athos knew that Suard had fought to protect himself, a weak attempt to reestablish his reputation with the musketeers and retake the command that had been ripped from his hands. Athos didn't believe for one second that Suard had done it to protect "those people." Suard was a strategist, although not a very good one. He had looked for possibilities to fight and win the war against Lord Eadmund, using the musketeers as pawns on a chessboard and the civilians had not even been a part of the equation.

Athos slowly leaned forward, his face unreadable. But the expression in his eyes spoke volumes. "I just regret that I didn't see through your schemes sooner." His voice was cold, emotionless. Scarred by Suard's actions and the past weeks on this island.

Porthos knelt down on the General's other side. "Despite your best efforts to the contrary, it turns out we won. We are surviving."

Athos could not bring himself to feel sorry for Suard. In the face of his own ultimate demise, Suard dropped his cold, calculating mask of command. His eyes were lit by fear and even the hate had vanished from his face. Athos guessed that even Suard knew that neither he nor Porthos were to blame for the lack of available medics.

Athos knelt down on Suard's other side. "Just know that everything we know about your actions will be presented to Captain Tréville, and to the King." He lowered his voice so only Porthos and Suard could hear him. "And I want you to know that should the King's mother attempt another revolt, we will be there to stop her. Whatever you had planned to achieve here, you, your family or Medici herself, it was and will continue to be unsuccessful."

Suard's white face was lit by what looked like a grin, showing Athos his blood-stained teeth. "Be clever all you want," their commander rasped. "It won't change the fact that…" He stopped and coughed, squeezing his eyes shut in pain as he continued to press his hand down on his stomach wound. He tried to gather himself, his lips forming a thin line. Eventually, his eyes shot open and locked on Athos again. "…you disobeyed orders. You are not righteous heroes, you failed in your duty."

Suard's struggle to keep the blood from leaving his body grew weaker, and Porthos, despite the obvious disgust written all over his face, pinned the General down on the ground to ease the pain Suard was obviously in. "Disobeying was more honorable than following your orders, Sir," he growled towards his former commander. "And for killing my brothers, you'll have to ask for God's forgiveness. You will never have mine."

The General's eyes rested on Porthos, and he clawed onto the musketeer's shoulder and sleeve, unshed tears pooling in his eyes. Whether it was due to the pain or due to the belated realization of his actions, Athos could not tell.

He had spent weeks worrying and debating about how to deal with Suard, how to explain the whole situation to the King and questioning whether he or his brothers could risk losing their heads over this whole affair. All those worries were gone, eradicated by the island, erased by the war they had found themselves in. The war might grant different positions of power to different people, but in battle, it was live or die. Kill, or be killed. This bloody nature of war did not respect the boundaries of authority or power.

Suard continued to hold onto Porthos, who was surprisingly calm, but cold. His face showed very little empathy. After a few moments, it was over.

The swordsman slowly climbed back to his feet, and he could feel the presence of the other musketeers who had formed a circle around them, all of them staring blankly at Suard. He heard some of them murmur a quick prayer, others just sank to the ground in exhaustion, barely taking notice of their dead commanding officer. Again others, Guillaume among them, cursed the General in his last moments. Guillaume's eyes were filled with nothing but hatred and sorrow.

They had survived Cévry, they had survived multiple ambushes. They had survived the Butcher of La Rochelle, and they had even withstood the Duke of Buckingham himself. And they had only been a handful of men.

They all looked at each other, and the truth hung in the air between them. A truth that they all seemed to share. That now, they were a brotherhood of men, connected by their past, connected by their present and bound by their duty and loyalty, to France and to each other. They drew their strength from it. And from the one other thing they had left – hope.

The hope that France had not forgotten about them.

* * *

As the sun started to set, the dust of the past battle began to settle and the blood began to dry on the ground. The English had retreated, for now, but it was only a matter of time. They were either collecting the bodies of their fallen soldiers, or they were getting the artillery to destroy this fortress once and for all.

The musketeers had headed out silently, to search for Aramis and Philippe, as well as the other few musketeers who had been missing since the battle of Saint-Blanceau. Arthur, in his few moments of awareness, had given them a vague description of where to look for Aramis and Philippe, which is why the patrols had cautiously avoided going too far into the English territory. The old man who had rescued Arthur had confirmed the musketeer's statement. They had stuck to searching the area of the farmhouse, but English patrols scattered all over the island had forced them to retreat earlier, bringing no news of the whereabouts of their missing brothers.

The only thing left to do was to wait inside the fortress, and hope for a miracle. A rescue. They were still sending out patrols to secure at least the immediate area around the fortress. They did not want to be surprised. Despite the fact that with Suard gone, they had one less problem on the table, the English were not the only threat. The musketeers were running out of gunpowder supplies. There was still some left, but it would hold on maybe one more battle. If they were lucky.

There had been times when Athos had hated the screams echoing through the fortress, there had been times when he would have given anything to calm the atmosphere, to drown out all of the noises. But the silence now was oppressive, and it burned itself deep into his heart and soul, tearing every nerve he had left.

He was standing at the wooden table of the commander's tent, his hands on the desk, his face hidden by the curtain of sweaty hair. His knees were trembling, and his whole body shaking with exhaustion. A small trail of blood ran down his left arm and stained the dark wood of the table red.

For a while he wasn't able to notice anything but his own, unsteady breathing, as well as the blood pounding in his ears. He wasn't even able to name all the emotions crowding in upon him.

There was exhaustion, weariness and worry, but there was also anger, disappointment and fear. But despite all, and despite his dire situation, there was still a spark of hope in his heart, filled with the desire to fight, filled with confidence in his brothers.

"Athos?"

He looked up into the eyes of Mathis, standing in the entrance of the little tent. The soldier met Athos' look with an expression of worry on his face, his chin held high.

"What is it?" Athos' voice sounded very distant in his own ears.

"The evening patrol reports some suspicious movement west of here."

Athos released a stuttering breath and nodded.

"Any news about Aramis?" he asked. Mathis just shook his head and dropped his gaze to the ground, his lips pressed together tightly.

"Porthos and the others?" Athos dug deeper, desperately searching for any kind of reassurance. Porthos had taken it upon himself to look after the civilians, and the musketeers in need of help. Both physically and mentally. Many civilians were in need of comfort, of reassurance, and that was something Athos felt unable to provide for them. Porthos on the other hand was born for it.

"Holdin' on," Mathis reported briefly, but his tone told Athos that there was not much left to say. The truth about the past weeks, and the truth about their whole situation, hung in the air, unspoken and threatening.

Athos slowly reached for the quill to his right as he made a decision.

"What are you going to do?" Mathis asked with a spark of curiosity.

Athos swallowed hard, before he grabbed a piece of paper and started writing with his shaking hand.

"I'm going to write to the Captain. One last time."

He chose his words with care. He informed Tréville about their current situation, and noted that they would not be able to hold on without any reinforcements. He decided not to mention Suard's fate. There was no point in it; Tréville would gain no necessary information for a possible rescue out of it. He hurriedly finished the letter and folded the message, sealing it with haste.

He grabbed his pistol from the table, tightened the bandage around his arm and put on his doublet again before he exited the tent and called Henri over.

The cadet saw Athos with the piece of paper and didn't ask any questions, he just nodded and left the fortress to bring it to the citadel.

Athos on the other hand strode over to the wooden post where they had tied the few horses they possessed. He walked towards the tall, grey stallion and untied him, before he saddled the beast. It was the horse Suard had first entered the camp with, a moody horse but fierce. Once it was saddled, Athos untied another horse, an equally tall dark-brown mare, one of the horses they had caught during the battle of Cévry. He saddled her too, and tied her reins to the saddle of the stallion.

He noticed the presence of Mathis out of the corner of his eye.

"Where are you going?" Mathis queried as he steadied the horse for Athos.

"I will go find Aramis and Philippe. You have the camp Mathis, you and Porthos. Inform him. Be prepared."

Mathis' face darkened. "Be prepared for what?"

Athos put his foot in the stirrup and lifted himself into the saddle. "For everything. One way or the other, I believe our time on Ré Island has come to an end."


	25. Hearts of Iron

**XXV. Hearts of Iron**

Athos forced his horse into a fast trot. He kept his injured arm and hand tight around the horse's reins, and his good hand rested on the hilt of his pistol. The mare he had tied to his own horse was following calmly, but every sound the hooves made on the ground was one step closer to being spotted. Athos knew that the English could be anywhere, but he had decided not to wait any longer. The risk of losing Aramis' trail was too high, and he doubted his friend could survive out here on his own any longer. Especially with Buckingham's and Eadmund's troops scouting the entire area.

The destroyed farmhouse came into sight, but Athos took the path to the right, following down the track that led to the narrow beach, right underneath the cliffs. The horses had a hard time keeping their footing on the uneven and narrow space, but with a calm and steady hand, Athos made it down safely.

He could feel his own heart beating heavily in his chest. He knew that heading out on his own was a risky and somewhat desperate move, especially because he went without Porthos. But he would deal with Porthos' wrath at being left behind later. His heart and his mind shared one sentiment – that the time on Ré Island was coming to an end. But whether it would be due to the musketeers' complete annihilation or a miraculous, heroic rescue was not clear, and something told him that in order to get all their hopes back up, they needed a win. Finding Aramis alive was something Athos considered a win.

Despite his best efforts to keep everyone out of his life, ever since he joined the musketeers two years ago both Porthos and Aramis had managed not only to reach out to him, but to earn their places in his life, his concern and his care and protection. They had become the closest thing he had to a family, and it made Athos vulnerable, whether he liked it or not. He owed it to them to keep them as safe as he could manage. It was what he fought for, along with honor, and what he believed was right.

And in the end, he did not care what happened to this island. All he cared about was getting the civilians, his comrades and his brothers off the island alive.

Athos' stallion slowed the pace as his hooves buried themselves in the sand with each step, but he kept going, as fast as he possibly could. The wind was blowing harshly down here. The waves slapped the land energetically, but they weren't high enough to pose a direct threat.

A larger rock came into sight, halfway in the waters. Athos immediately grabbed his weapon as a shadow jumped out from behind the cover. He saw the outlines of the pistol just in time to duck his head.

The bullet wheezed past his left side and struck the rocky surface of the cliffs with a loud bang.

"God damn it!" Athos cursed under his breath when his stallion made attempts to bolt. The animal's eyes were wide open as he reared and neighed in protest and surprise. Athos grabbed the reins with both hands again and used his feet to force the animal back on the ground.

As soon as the stallion had calmed down and placed all four hooves back on the sand, Athos bent over the horse's neck and narrowed his eyes to take in all the details of the figure that had emerged from behind the rock.

Relief flooded through his veins and he almost felt like laughing. Instead he slowly exhaled, and forced the horse to turn sideways so he could get a better look.

Aramis' eyes went wide when he realized what he had almost done. The marksman's left side was drenched in fresh blood, possibly from a wound on his back. His face was covered in some cuts and bruises, and his neck showed a minor degree burn. His hands were covered in dried blood, but whether or not it was his own, Athos could not tell.

From what Athos could see from his position on the horse, the attack of the cannons hadn't broken any bones in his friend's body, but whatever had happened to him since had left its mark. Of exhaustion, of pain.

It was the weariness and exhaustion, yes almost hopelessness, that he read in Aramis' face that scared him the most, even though it was slowly replaced by relief and joy.

Athos just raised an eyebrow and tucked his pistol back into his belt.

Aramis on the other hand lifted his shoulders a bit, raising his hands and clearing his throat.

"I'm sorry?"

* * *

Aramis blinked multiple times to clear his vision, the better to take in and process the image of Athos coming to his rescue.

"When did you forget how to shoot?" Athos asked him dryly, but Aramis could tell that it wasn't a serious question by the slightly amused smile on his friend's face.

"Oh, you know, ever since the English cannons blasted me one floor down, my muscles are not exactly cooperating as they should," Aramis attempted a lame justification, lowered his still smoking weapon and rested his hands on his knees.

Athos brought his horse to a halt and slid down from the saddle. Though Aramis was incredibly delighted to see his friend, the relief he felt was replaced with a tinge of worry. Athos was alive, he was breathing and still standing, but the dark circles under his eyes and the sweat plastering his forehead spoke of how much he too had suffered under Suard and the English attacks. Aramis could only guess how hard the past couple of days had been for him, but this was not the time or the place to ask.

Athos walked towards him, with a slight limp, and when he reached Aramis he briefly pulled the marksman into a quick hug. Aramis was surprised, since it was not like Athos to show his emotions openly, except maybe for anger and frustration, but he too gently clasped his friend's good shoulder and felt a smile on his lips.

"This island does not seem to be fond of you," Athos observed impassively. He let his eyes swerve over the area behind Aramis.

"Tell me something I don't already know," Aramis replied breathlessly, as he doubled over to catch his breath and steady his heartbeat.

"Philippe?" Athos asked him, but he already seemed to know the answer.

Aramis just shook his head. "Porthos?" he asked instead, but Athos just squeezed his arm reassuringly.

"Alive and as well as the circumstances allow us."

Aramis closed his eyes, and as if his heart was sending him a reminder, he saw images flashing in front of his inner eye. Of the dead musketeers in the farmhouse, of the exploding walls, of Philippe's body at the beach. Panic stirred in him, and he grabbed Athos' good arm. Hard.

"Suard?" Aramis' voice was surprisingly steady but was filled with anger and frustration. "If I get my hands on…"

"Suard is dead," Athos interrupted him, with no expression in his voice. "He didn't survive Buckingham's latest ambush." He made a very brief pause before he started to guide Aramis towards the horses. "As much as I'd love to fill you in, I prefer not to get shot doing it. You can ride?"

Aramis just grunted in affirmation and limped towards the tall brown horse. Athos, without asking or waiting, gave his friend a boost until he was on top of the horse. Then he turned towards the stallion and shakily mounted up again, handing Aramis' the reins of the mare he had tied to his saddle.

He exchanged one brief look with Aramis, but his friend assured him he was coping well with a flick of his wrist and both of them dug their heels into their horses' flanks.

Aramis left it to Athos to take the lead, and he trusted his horse to follow. He was tired and exhausted, and he felt it in every bone of his body. Athos looked as if he was barely holding on himself. Aramis wrapped the reins around his left hand and began to reload his empty pistol. It was better to be prepared, and as he watched how Athos kept looking to the left and right, he guessed that there were reasons to believe there were a lot of English patrols around.

"Does Porthos know you are out here?" Aramis doubted that Porthos would have let Athos go out alone, especially in his condition.

Athos said nothing, he merely steered his horse to the side and passed the thick trees.

Aramis raised an eyebrow, even though Athos could not see it. "I'll take that as a no," he concluded with a low voice. "You like to live dangerously, don't you? Nobody in his right mind would provoke Porthos' wrath in a place like this."

Athos managed something that sounded like a huff. "Well then, it's a good thing I found you to make up for it."

Aramis just shook his head in exasperation, and as much as he enjoyed the somewhat lighthearted words he exchanged with his friend, they were all numbed by the shadow of what they had been through. He still could not dispel the images of the dead musketeers from the farmhouse, and they mixed with the older images he had never quite shaken off from earlier deployments.

He noticed that Athos' horse was going at a slower pace, and his friend raised a hand and brought it to his ears to indicate he had heard something. Aramis too slowed his mare down, keeping a firm hold on the pistol in his right hand.

Athos seemed to have spotted something. His eyes rested on something only he could see, further east between the trees. He gave up all attempts at stealth.

"Quick!" he said, and Aramis knew better than to waste time with questions. He was about to spur his horse into a gallop to follow Athos when it all happened at once.

He heard two muskets go off somewhere to the east. The next thing he saw was how Athos' grey warhorse collapsed and the impact threw Athos right out of the saddle.

Aramis' horse neighed and reared up in shock, and it took all of Aramis' control to prevent the animal from bolting and running away. Aramis could not see the origin of the gunshots; his eyes were glued to Athos who was still on the ground, unmoving, with half his arm trapped underneath the big horse. The stallion was lying on the ground, and the blood pooling underneath the horse told Aramis he wouldn't go any further.

"Athos!" Aramis cursed and as soon as he was sure his horse was calm enough, he slid out of the saddle and landed on his knees as they gave in. He still had his left hand tightly around his horse's reins, as he was too scared the animal might bolt. His right hand was clasped around the hilt of his pistol, but he refused to waste his shot on a target he could not see.

Another two gunshots hissed through the air. Judging by the time that had passed between the first two shots and the second two, Aramis guessed those were four men, at most. Otherwise, he wouldn't be standing here, alive and breathing. The attackers must be working in pairs, just like the musketeers did at Saint-Blanceau. The two muskets missed, but it didn't help to calm the one horse they had left.

He cursed once again and crouched down next to Athos. The swordsman's eyes were wide open, and filled with unspeakable pain. Aramis, in a hurry, quickly scanned his friend for injuries, praying that none of the muskets had hit Athos, but he couldn't find a gunshot wound.

However, the state of delirium, where the pain had grown so immense that Athos was unable to answer told Aramis he was missing something. He nudged Athos' face with the hilt of his pistol, as he still refused to let go of the reins of the horse.

"Athos, are you with me?" Aramis' panic grew as he received no answer from his friend, merely a stuttering attempt to breathe.

Another two gunshots, this time, one of the bullets only missed Athos on the ground by inches.

"For the love of God!" Aramis yelled and finally took his aim towards the mystery figures behind the trees and fired. And this time, as Athos had so charmingly put it, he had not forgotten how to shoot. The distant yelp of pain assured him he had hit someone, but he concentrated back on Athos. The adrenaline running through his veins ever since Athos' horse had been killed was the only reason why he was still on his feet.

Pushing his now empty pistol into his belt, Aramis grabbed Athos by the shoulder but was unable to shift the animal enough to free his friend's arm.

"Athos, do you hear me?" Aramis asked loudly and roughly snatched Athos' pistol from his friend's weapons belt.

Athos was blinking rapidly, but before he had a chance to answer, Aramis pulled at his shoulder once again, finally freeing the arm from its trap. Athos gasped for air when obvious pain shot through his entire body, and Aramis felt his friend's fingers clawing onto his sleeve for support.

"Merde," Aramis cursed. Though he knew he had no time for this now, he quickly assessed Athos' overall condition and saw the blood stains on his left arm. Athos' face was plastered with sweat, and Aramis was sure that was the effect of the poorly treated wounds on Athos' arm which seemed finally to have caught up with him. Athos' eyes were disoriented, but he was still conscious.

Aramis breathed out, struggling to keep his grip on the panicking horse's reins. There was a swordsman with two infected wounds on his arm and probably a few bruised ribs on top of the numerous smaller battle wounds, and a marksman with a bleeding wound in his upper back, an old wound in his leg and a serious case of dehydration. He had unfortunate throwbacks to the battle of Cévry a few weeks earlier.

Aramis made the decision in the blink of an eye. The only way out of here seemed to be through. And there was only one place on this island where they would be 'safe'.

Just then two new bullets were fired at them, one of which buried itself in the flesh of the dead horse. Aramis put Athos' arm around his shoulder, biting down curses when a bolt of pain shot through his upper back.

Athos, despite the obvious pain he was in, tried to help and Aramis pulled him into a standing position. Aramis had a hard time trying to keep his own balance, hold Athos upright and not let go of Athos' pistol or the reins of the horse.

Just when it was time for the next freshly reloaded salvo of musket shots, Aramis closed one eye, took his aim and fired. He didn't wait to see or hear if he had hit something, instead he turned towards the horse which was dancing nervously on the spot, clearly spooked by all the noise. He saw how Athos buried his hand in the animal's mane and put one foot in the stirrup. At least he was conscious enough to know what to do.

"Can you make it?" Aramis asked unnecessarily and shot another worried glance towards the dangerous treeline. As soon as Athos was halfway into the saddle, Aramis steadied the horse and with every ounce of strength he had left pulled himself up to sit a little ungracefully behind Athos, who was slumped over the horses' neck, trying to pull himself together.

Aramis dug his heels into the animal's flanks and grasped the reins even tighter, before he headed off north. And the gunshots, threatening and deadly, did not stop.

There was absolutely no way that the mysterious English marksmen were keeping up with a horse and following them so quickly, but then again, he noticed just how many gunshots pierced the air. All of them missed their target, but the horse became more frightened with every deafening sound.

Aramis realized that it was not only the one group of four English marksmen. There were multiple groups, all aiming on the path that led straight towards the musketeer fortress. Which meant they would be riding through an explosive corridor.

Athos in front of him lifted his head as if he had just woken up. The trembling that had had hold of his friend's body seemed to grow weaker, and Aramis just hoped that it was a good sign.

"You're good?" Aramis yelled over the noise of the wind and the shooting.

"Golden," he heard Athos' growl, but slowly and surely, the musketeer seemed to regain his senses. "Give me the reins."

"Are you sure?" Aramis shot back, and couldn't hide the worry in his voice. "You…"

"Just give them to me," Athos interrupted harshly, and snatched them out of Aramis' hands.

Aramis cursed Athos' stubbornness, but he contented himself with trying to reload one of the pistols. Meanwhile, Athos tried to evade the musket shots by steering the horse around the trees with elegance and skill, finding cover from another salvo just when it was fired. The shots hit the tree which Athos had passed moments earlier, sending splintered wood raining down upon them.

"They are on foot!" Aramis yelled his assessment into Athos' ear. "If we ride fast enough, they won't have a chance to follow."

Athos showed no indication whether he had heard him or not, but Aramis could feel the animal speeding up as much as it could underneath the weight it carried.

They galloped straight towards the wooden fortress, while a few English muskets riddled the ground around them with bullets and sent the dirt flying through the air.

* * *

"They weren't even fifty men, Eadmund!"

Lord Eadmund was standing in front of a wooden table in a big, white tent. Buckingham was glowing with anger and frustration, his hands resting on the surface, his nails digging into the wood.

"Not even fifty," he repeated. "You had this one task, and yet, here we are. I cannot take care of the musketeers while I am besieging the bloody citadel."

"The musketeers' General is dead," Eadmund defended himself. He stayed calm. Buckingham was his superior, but unlike some of his men, he wasn't afraid of him. "One of my men said he shot him during the retreat."

Buckingham rounded the table, slowly, like a predator. "In case you haven't noticed, it was never this General leading the musketeer regiment. Musketeers are…reliant." He exhaled slowly. "Stubborn. And hard to kill. And except for one of their own, or the King, they don't do well with authority."

He smashed his fist against the wooden table, hard. He let out all of his caged anger, and more importantly, his frustration. "It has been weeks, but I am unable to break the citadel's defense. Commander Décart refuses to be lured out. You will have to get rid of those musketeers for me. I will not withdraw with with nothing to show for it!"

"The musketeers are very few in numbers, but they killed almost half of my men." Lord Eadmund knew that despite the circumstances, he could speak openly with Buckingham. And the truth was, those French elite soldiers were better fighters than most of the English recruits in his own regiment. "I'm open to suggestions, Sir. How do you think we can defeat them?"

A sinister smile played on Buckingham's lips. "Well…I've got a feeling musketeers are only defeated when they die." He lifted his head. "They are wounded, they are running out of resources if they have to feed the civilians too. The only thing that saves them right now are those walls."

Lord Eadmund ran a hand over his hair. "Then give me a few cannons. I can tear those walls down, and corner them in their hideout. We can besiege them, pin them into the fortress, and then we shred those walls and attack. Half a dozen cannons…"

"Three," Buckingham cut in. "You'll get three cannons. I need the rest for the citadel. If you get this done, if you finally get rid of the musketeers for good, I'll put in a good word with the King for you. I'm sure Charles will appreciate loyalty and consistency."

Lord Eadmund bowed his head. "Give me the cannons, and I'll be happy to oblige."

* * *

"Porthos, what's going on out there?" Lucien's voice reached Porthos' ears, but the musketeer was too distracted in a discussion with his comrades to give him an immediate answer.

About five to ten minutes ago, the shooting had started. It was outside the fortress, and the musketeers inside the fortress were obviously not the target, but everyone had taken a battle position immediately, cornering the civilians in the safest place of their hideout. Arthur and another badly wounded musketeer had been dragged into the space as well.

Then Mathis had found him, and reported that Athos had left the fortress with two horses about an hour ago. Porthos was still fuming with anger, but he knew that going after his friend would be foolish. Still, he was going to have a word with him.

But when he had started to connect the shooting to Athos' apparent rescue mission outside, his worry levels had spiked up to high alert. Because they had no patrols out at the moment, Athos was the only logical target the English could have. Or Aramis and one of the missing musketeers.

"Porthos!" Lucien tried again but Porthos made a dismissive gesture with his hand and hushed him.

"Not now," he hissed and turned towards Mathis who was standing close to the gate. "Do you see something?"

Mathis peeked through their little lookout between two wooden beams and grimaced. "Not sure. But I hear a horse."

"One?" Porthos dug deeper, and his hope that Athos had brought Aramis back with him was crushed. Athos had left with two horses, Mathis had said. So either he had lost one of the horses or the rider outside was not French.

Mathis narrowed his eyes, before he jumped back in surprise and started waving violently. "It's Athos."

"Open the gates!" Porthos said, but the musketeers closest to the gate, apart from Mathis, didn't even move one muscle. They stood there, frozen in indecision, and Porthos knew it was probably because of the lack of commanders around.

"For God's sake!" Porthos shouted and ran towards the gate himself. He disabled the blockades and with an amount of strength only he possessed, he opened the left side of the gate widely, so that a rider could pass through. He was not one second too soon.

The horse galloped through the open gate at full speed, snorting and neighing in protest at the treatment. Porthos would recognize the two riders anywhere, and the weight that had crushed his shoulders ever since the battle of Saint-Blanceau felt a lot lighter. For a moment, it seemed as if they hadn't lost half of their men, that their own commander hadn't tried to kill them, and as if Buckingham himself hadn't set out to eliminate them. It was almost the same atmosphere as it was back in Paris, whenever they successfully returned from a risky mission to which Treville had assigned them.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, Porthos laughed in delight as he set eyes on the two men on top of the tall horse. He hurried to close the gates, but the gunshots had already stopped. Apparently, his friends had outrun the English marksmen.

He carefully put the barricades back in place before he finally turned around. Athos was sitting in front of Aramis, holding the reins. At the moment, he was trying to force the nervous animal to a complete halt, but Mathis was there and he grasped the bridle and guided the horse to a full stop.

Porthos slowly approached his brothers. Guillaume carefully gave Aramis a hand in getting off the horse, and the marksman's face was a mask of pain as he slid down the animal's back with little of the elegance he usually exhibited. When he had his two feet on the ground, he and Guillaume both had to catch Athos, who managed to dismount with even less elegance than Aramis, if that was even possible. He was cradling his left arm close to his chest, and keeping pressure against his rib cage as if he was in pain. Which he and Aramis both undoubtedly were.

Now both of them were more or less keeping each other upright as they walked to meet Porthos. The rest of the musketeer soldiers approached as well, many of whom put their weapons back into their belts. Guillaume and Mathis continued to deal with the frightened horse.

Porthos quickly hurried to cross the distance between them and he simultaneously pulled both of them into a quick half-hug, before he took a step back.

"You look like hell," Porthos assessed. "You both look like crap."

"Speak for yourself," Aramis' comeback was rather weak by his standards and he rested his hands on his knees. "The blood and sweat only adds to my good looks. Women call it 'dangerously intriguing.'"

Athos snorted. "I'd call it 'almost died'."

"Besides," Porthos added with an eye-roll, "there's a lack of ladies around you could impress."

Aramis laughed, but then all of them went serious again, the smiles wiped off their faces at an instant.

"Not really my priority now," he whispered and his eyes were locked on the ground, his fingers nervously playing with his dagger. Suddenly, his head snapped back up and his gaze swerved over the area, searching.

"What about Arthur, is he…?"

"We found them," Porthos explained just as Aramis seemingly spotted the figure of a wounded Arthur amidst the crowd of civilians. "The civilians treated his injuries as best as they could. He's still alive." He bit his lip, and posed the question despite the fact he already guessed the answer.

"What about Philippe?"

"Dead." Aramis' voice was filled with so much pain and regret that Porthos decided not to dig any further. He would learn the details, in time. "The English have marksmen positioned all the way down the main path," Aramis reported. "We won't be able to take one step out of the fortress without being seen." A worried murmur spread through the rows of the remaining musketeers around. "If it weren't for the horse, Athos and I wouldn't have made it back."

"Speaking of horses, what happened to the other one?" Théo threw in from the side and received nothing but a death-glare from Athos and an eye roll from Aramis.

"What do you think?" Aramis quipped. He slowly limped to the side and dropped onto the old tree-trunk near the campfire, exhaustion written all over his pale face.

"I…I really need something to drink." The surrounding musketeers heard Aramis' words, and took the hint. They withdrew to the civilians, giving Athos, Porthos and Aramis the space they needed. The space they needed to properly regroup and catch up with each other.

Porthos grabbed his water bottle and handed it to Aramis, who dumped half of its content right down his throat. He seemed to be beyond thirsty. Athos slowly limped over to sit next to Aramis. He was moving slowly and stiffly, his arm cradled around his chest. A small trail of blood was running down his sweaty forehead.

Porthos took his position on the other side of the campfire, and for a moment nobody said a word. Aramis kept playing with the dagger in his hands, and Athos seemed to be brooding silently. Porthos could almost see the adrenaline leaving his friends' bodies, and he knew that both of them were currently fighting hard to maintain the impression that they were holding up just fine.

"Are you two going to be alright?" Porthos broke the silence with a worried tone in his voice. He looked from Athos' infected arm back to Aramis' blood-stained jacket.

"I'd be very thankful if one of you could treat the hole in my back before too long," Aramis answered tiredly, "but I am alive. That's as fine as I'm going to get. As for Athos…"

"Yes, I know," the swordsman interrupted him brusquely. "You told me. Weeks ago."

"I did." Aramis sounded more worried than reproachful or triumphant.

"Yes." Athos didn't look as irritable as he sounded. "But the pain is manageable. Thank you."

Aramis showed clear discomfort and was hesitant to speak up again, yet Porthos could see that something had happened out there that justified Aramis' following words.

"Your whole arm is a mess. I don't know what happened to you, to both of you, in Saint-Blanceau, but Athos, that little rescue mission out there could have cost your life, heaven, it almost did." He shook his head as if to dispel whatever he had seen out there. Porthos guessed it had to do with the dead horse and Athos' brilliant idea to go out alone.

Then, Aramis gently nudged Athos' good shoulder. "And I didn't expect you to do anything else. Thank you, my friend. If it weren't for you, I would have died out there."

Porthos could see that Aramis was not really angry at Athos, he was more a little desperate. Desperate that Athos once again had foolishly risked his life for one of them, but then again, Porthos or Aramis would have done the very same thing for Athos. If Porthos interpreted it right, Aramis was frustrated because Athos did not take proper care of himself and was too stubborn to see it. Aramis was grateful for the rescue, that he could see. But he seemed concerned. Concerned about Athos, concerned about the musketeers entire situation.

Athos' face was unreadable, but Porthos could see that the tension slowly left the swordsman's body and he visibly relaxed a bit.

But now it was Porthos' turn. He did not want to further reprimand his friend, he merely longed for understanding.

"You went without me." His eyes were fixed on Athos.

"…and you want to know why," Athos concluded keenly, finally meeting Porthos' accusing gaze. He kept fumbling with the water bottle in his hands, as if to distract himself, to keep his body and mind occupied. He sighed. "The risk of being spotted is lower when I go out alone. And since Suard is dead…"

Aramis reacted to that statement with a satisfied growl.

"…it is up to us to handle the situation. We cannot allow ourselves more mistakes, and somebody had to take care of the fortress. Of the civilians."

"We have perfectly trained men for that," Porthos replied soberly. "Nobody here is in charge now, we are all equal in rank. You could have left the fortress to one of the others."

Athos exhaled slowly and diverted his gaze, almost looking ashamed. "Yes, I could have." He lifted his head and his eyes rested on the group of musketeers that had retreated back to the spot with the civilians.

Porthos narrowed his eyes. He knew Athos well enough to make his own conclusions.

"You don't trust them." He frowned. "I know that look on you, you don't trust the others. After all of this, after these past weeks?" He was more surprised than reproachful.

Athos rolled his eyes. "I trust them," he replied shortly. "I just trust you more."

Porthos did not know whether to feel angry or flattered. He decided to let it rest, and after they had spent another minute in uncomfortable silence, he spoke up again. He knew that Aramis and Athos both longed for rest, and both needed it desperately, as well as medical treatment, but there was one subject nobody had dared to address yet, so Porthos did.

"So, what are our next steps?" he asked. "We need a plan."

Athos stared into the void and wordlessly just took a sip out of the water bottle. Aramis on the other hand finally put down the dagger and straightened up as much as his back injury allowed him. "I am going to restock my supplies, treat any injuries that need treatment, and if God allows me, I'll try to get some sleep."

"I was thinking of something more farsighted," Porthos continued. "We may have no commanding officer, but perhaps all of us can join forces, come up with a proper plan. I won't sit around and do nothing."

His friend pressed his lips into a thin line.

"What do you want me to say?" Aramis asked and ran a shaky hand over his beard. "It is the way it is. If Lord Eadmund doesn't shoot us off this island, Buckingham will. We've given all we have. I don't know how…" His voice broke and he shook his head in desperation.

"So what, this is it?" Porthos cut in unbelievingly. "Hell, I am not one for abandoning these people."

Aramis looked up, and Porthos could see the hurt in his eyes. "That's not what I meant."

"He knows," Athos threw in before Porthos could answer for himself. "And I didn't endure you two for the past two years for things to end here. I've written again to Treville. I don't think the Captain will leave us to our fate."

"Lord Eadmund is right at our doorstep. It won't be long now until they decide to besiege this fortress in earnest. They are going to hit us with everything they have, and you know it," Aramis justified himself.

Athos slowly nodded. "Yes."

Porthos sighed. "Right now, we're the only thing standing between the Butcher and the civilians." It was a statement, not a question.

Athos continued. "Eadmund will take the loss of Saint-Blanceau personally. He will bring all of his soldiers, he will bring artillery. Perhaps he even has some horsemen left. He is better equipped thanks to Buckingham, and in case I haven't mentioned before, he has us outnumbered."

Porthos grimaced. "Sounds like it's worth the effort."

The hint of disbelief and amusement passed Aramis' face. "The odds are against us, my friends," he said as if Porthos and Athos needed a reminder.

Athos just smirked, and he noticed the broad smile on Porthos' face. The big musketeer chucked dryly and gently clapped Aramis' arm, before he put one arm around each of them.

"And when exactly has that ever stopped us?"

* * *

_The finale which is up next will be split into two parts. I'll try my best to get it done somewhat quickly. Special thanks to Jmp for your kind review, it means a lot to me! Also, thank you to Laureleaf, I hope quarantine is treating you well too. I'm very glad to hear you're still enjoying, and thank you for your nice words!Thank you all for still reading. _


	26. Dead Men's Charge

**XXVI. Dead Men's Charge**

The following days were long, and every hour that passed dragged itself into eternity. The musketeers were staying inside the fortress, as none of them dared to step outside once more after what had happened during Aramis' rescue. Too threatening were the shadows among the trees, and too uncertain was the situation and fate of the others on Ré Island.

Athos, Aramis and Porthos had tried their best to keep everyone's spirits up, but it was difficult to maintain their own optimism. The civilians were getting ever more uneasy, as they slowly began to realize that the musketeers did not have an escape plan. Just about half of the musketeers that had landed on Ré Island all those weeks ago were still here, and most of them were not even at full strength. They were hungry, they were exhausted, they were injured. And above all, they were scared, even though most would not admit it.

Three of them were seriously wounded, and would be no help should the anticipated battle begin. Arthur was among them. He was still holding on, but everybody knew that they needed to bring him to the mainland. As soon as possible.

The weight of temporary command, and thus the weight of making the decisions nobody wanted to make, had fallen back to Athos, Aramis and Porthos. Not even the cadet Frédéric had protested. For reasons Athos did not understand, the remaining musketeers counted on them to take the lead.

Porthos, still suffering from his stay at Lord Eadmund's and still troubled by his limited eyesight, had spent the days taking care of the needs of the civilians. He had become their contact person, and despite the fact that he liked to use the evening to rant about Lucien or other civilians' ignorance and annoyance, he had treated them all as well as the circumstances allowed. With respect, patience and determination.

Aramis was still limping more than he probably should after all those weeks, and after the ordeal at the farmhouse and everything that went with it, he was far from his best form. The wound in his back had stopped bleeding but was healing slowly. He had taken charge of the medical tent, and treated Arthur and the others with everything he had, but his hands had been shaking badly and Guillaume had stepped in to serve as his assistant.

Athos had tried his best to keep the others busy, to distract them from the lurking English menace outside of the walls, but he also hadn't let down his guard. He too was still hurting. Aramis had treated the wounds on his arm, but the arm was still useless, and the pain had spread up to his neck and down to his wrist. Luckily, at least according to Aramis, his temperature remained only slightly elevated, indicating that the infection was not spreading. After his painful fall from the horse, he was sure he had sustained some major bruising on his ribs and down his knee, but he hadn't allowed Aramis to check and didn't plan on doing so. He was moving around stiffly, yes, but he couldn't allow himself to rest.

Everybody had their tasks to fulfill. Porthos dealt with the innocent civilians, Aramis with the musketeers and those who were injured, and Athos was left to deal with the English and whatever they had planned next. He had used the days to exchange information with the citadel. He had reported the death of General Suard, though he had left out the details.

Commander Décart on the other hand had reported through Captain Méchant that Cardinal Richelieu was sending reinforcements and supplies, and the plan was to land secretly at Fort de la Prée on the eastern shore of Ré Island. Buckingham had ignored the abandoned fort so far, and hadn't bothered to station any surveillance troops there. A welcome trap for Richelieu to set.

Further on, Méchant had said a distraction would be welcome, and Athos knew without the Captain saying so that the musketeers were part of the distraction. As long as they were still here, the English wouldn't bother to check Fort de la Prée. To Commander Décart, the musketeers were expandable, just as they had been to General Suard.

When the eighth day had dawned, Athos had already felt it in his bones that something was changing.

He had spent most of the morning and midday checking their supplies and preparing their weapons, before he had decided to get a little bit of rest.

In the afternoon, Porthos had woken him, anxiously reporting that a naval battle had erupted just about half an hour ago. Athos had been so exhausted that not even the thundering cannons had been able to wake him from the sleep he badly needed.

Athos had hurried towards their lookout spot near the wall, and the distant fire on the open sea accompanied by the muffled bang of cannons underlined Porthos' statement.

It was too misty to make out anything specific, but a tiny piece of Athos' heart clung to the hope that those were French ships trying to break through the English blockade. In the best case, this was Captain Tréville coming to their rescue. In worst case, the musketeers were truly and ultimately surrounded by the enemy. In a weird and twisted way, he was looking forward to it, no matter the outcome. Because at the moment, anything was better than waiting for something to happen.

Athos didn't have too long to think about what was going on at sea. It was what was going on right in front of him that required his attention.

"Hey, over here!" Guillaume suddenly called to nobody in particular, and Athos turned on the spot and looked. Guillaume was standing at the gates and seemed to be reporting something to Aramis. The marksman was focused on the gate but kept casting worrying glances towards the civilians.

Athos, with Porthos right by his side, strode over to join his friend. As soon as Guillaume noticed them, he nodded and left to gather the rest of the soldiers, without saying a single word of explanation.

"Aramis?" Athos asked sharply, but Aramis just stared at the gate, his hand scratching his beard absentmindedly.

"They're here," he reported tonelessly and made a gesture towards the closed gate. "It's the English General. They revealed themselves. We have roughly fifty muskets aimed at us, and we have seen at least two cannons. The Butcher – Lord Eadmund – isn't waiting any longer."

Athos looked at him, just for a moment, and he felt the stares of all the other musketeers on him. Through the silence in the fortress, they heard distant voices and movements, even over the distant turmoil at sea. The Butcher's troops seemed to be here, and they were close.

Knowing that the others waited for orders, or waited for somebody to take charge, Athos just raised his arm and gave a signal. He didn't dare to yell out anything; who knew how close the English really were and how much they understood. The clenched fist in the air was something every musketeer understood immediately – _arm yourselves_.

All of them hurried towards the tent where they kept the few supplies they had. Porthos, Aramis and Athos stayed where they were. Athos never took off his weapons, and Aramis and Porthos had been up all day and were armed to the teeth.

"This is it, then," Aramis clasped his hands together, tightly. "I guess this is our last stand."

Porthos shook his head. "There's a battle at sea. It could be Treville, hell, I'd even welcome the Cardinal if I have to. We just have to hold on long enough."

"They have cannons," Athos pointed out rightfully. "We are at clear disadvantage." He stated a fact, but made sure that it didn't sound as if it intimidated him.

"Well, what did Porthos say again?" Aramis said with a hint of a smile, clearly regaining his confidence. "When has that stopped us?"

Porthos grunted affirmatively.

"This is the end here," Aramis continued with a steady voice, wincing as he straightened up and jarred his wounds. "This war – at least our war – is lost. All we can do is hold our ground, and try to get those innocent people to safety. But first...," and he turned to see the waiting and armed rows of musketeers surrounding them in a half-circle. The civilians, led by Lucien, were there too, staring at them in anticipation. Fear was written all over their faces.

"Somebody has to say something," Aramis finished with a low voice, so only Athos and Porthos could hear him. Both Porthos and Aramis rested their gazes on Athos.

"Why are you looking at me?" Athos hissed, raising an eyebrow. "You both know I'm no speechmaker."

Aramis sighed. "That's true." His gaze wandered towards Porthos. "And I fear I'm unable to choose the right, encouraging words at the moment."

Porthos shrugged. "Fine, I'll do it." He turned towards the waiting soldiers, Athos and Aramis took their places by his side. "Just…back me up, will you?" he added towards his brothers before he raised his voice. But he stayed cautious and made sure not to yell or shout.

"The English are here. They brought cannons, and they are in attack formation. Our number one priority is to protect the civilians, and to protect our injured comrades. I am not going to lie – we are outnumbered. Heavily outnumbered." He made a short pause. "So we have three options: One, we surrender and beg for our lives."

The reaction was immediate. At least half of the assembled men grimaced sourly and shook their heads, others crossed their arms in front of their chest and looked at Porthos as if he had just insulted both them and God.

Porthos had a contented spark in his eyes. "Yeah, that's what I thought. Two, we run. But we won't get far and at least half of us are going to die, let alone the number of civilians who will be caught in the crossfire."

The reaction was about the same as before. While one or two musketeers looked as if they were seriously considering it, the rest of them stared at Porthos wordlessly, raising questioning eyebrows and they didn't even try to conceal the anger on their faces.

"Right, doesn't sound too appealing to me either," Porthos mumbled before he continued. "Or three, we stay, we fight, and we hope that those ships trying to get through the English blockade are Treville and our brothers-in-arms. We face them, we fight them, and with a bit of luck, we win."

He was rewarded with silence. Athos could hear Aramis shifting nervously from one foot to the other, while he kept throwing glances towards the gate, as if he feared it might explode any second. Which, Athos reminded himself, it could.

"With a bit of luck?" Théo repeated pensively. "It's going to be difficult. We are far from our best form. Hell, many of us can barely stand. How are we supposed to prevail?"

"Together," Porthos answered gruffly. "We are used to fighting side by side. We will cover each others weaknesses, and we will not separate."

"What you are asking here, Porthos," the cadet Frédéric added politely, but skeptically, "is that we trust that nobody here will surrender themselves, that we are all on the same side."

"Aren't we?" Athos cut in sharply, sending a dark glare towards Frédéric. Sowing doubt was the last thing they needed. The cadet raised his arms defensively and took a step back.

"If you are unable to trust the man next to you, behind you…," Aramis explained calmly. "Then you are already a dead man."

"I'm placing my bets on the Captain," Porthos grunted and smiled. "Hope is not lost."

"No it isn't," Athos agreed. The musketeers exchanged some looks, others a few words. Athos grew more and more uneasy the longer they waited. It wasn't as if the Butcher was going to wait for them to finish their deliberations.

"But how are we supposed to do all that?" Guillaume asked, and Athos noticed Lucien nodding along. "How are we supposed to protect them?" He made a wide gesture towards the men, women and children who were mostly staring at Athos, Porthos and Aramis in tense anticipation.

"Just standing between the English and the civilians is a death sentence," Aramis declared and made an unsteady step forward. "I mean, we could, but I guarantee you that the English will riddle this place with cannon balls, and then we're back to one of the less popular options Porthos mentioned. We should at least have some kind of plan."

"If what we're counting on is true, and the Captain is coming for us," Guillaume raised his voice, "then we should make sure that the civilians get to the beach, so they can reach any possible rescue boats first."

"Question is," Aramis countered, "How are they supposed to get to the beach unnoticed? The only way out is the gate." He looked at Athos, as if he had already seen the thought taking shape in Athos' tired mind.

"It is. I have a plan," Athos suggested slowly, and turned around to face all of the men. "But I doubt you will like it."

* * *

"Sir, with all due respect, why are we waiting so long to attack?" Captain Harris dutifully looked up at his General. Lord Eadmund was seated on top of a tall, lean horse, which was throwing its head about impatiently. They were at the back of a formation of soldiers, with the muskets aligned in the first row and the swordsmen in the second row.

The General almost looked like he was about to laugh at the question. "You are familiar with the definition of a siege, I hope?"

Captain Harris lowered his gaze, keeping it locked on the fine craftsmanship of the pistol in his hands. "I am, Sir. But the musketeers are outnumbered. They have been outnumbered for days. The cannons have been in place for four days; why have we waited so long to attack them?"

Lord Eadmund just threw his Captain a tolerant look. "The musketeers have proven to be better fighters, and better strategists," he explained patiently. "But they haven't been able to leave their fortress for days. They are hungry, they are sick. Injured. They aren't able to put up much of a fight."

"Neither are we," Captain Harris murmured, and could consider himself lucky the General didn't hear him. The musketeers might have had a harder battle with supplies and wounded, but the situation of the English on Ré Island wasn't much better. With autumn setting in, sickness had reached the English camp and had left many men unable to fight. Not all of the supply ships had made it through to them, and resources were fading quickly. (And it was hard not to mention that on top of it all, they were continuing to fight the French soldiers to the death here. Still, those extra days may have also given the musketeers time to come up with a strategy.

"Then why now?" Harris had learnt that he was allowed to question his orders in front of the General, as long as he still followed them.

The General bent down over his horse's neck. "You hear those cannons?" Eadmund's face was like stone. "The French are trying to get through our blockade, and it seems they have brought many ships. We will attack, now, while we still have the upper hand."

Harris nodded slowly, and while he threw concerned looks towards the distant fires at sea, he raised his hand.

"Cannons!" Harris' order was repeated multiple times down the line, and he could hear the artillery being brought close enough to hit its target. To tear the fortress' walls down.

There it was again. The threatening and choking silence before a battle, where a man was able to hear his neighbour's heartbeat. Where a man was trying to contain his shaking knees, where a man said his prayers before entering the battlefield, giving in to the way of the sword.

But this time, it was not followed by the General's order, nor by an infuriated yell of one of the soldiers to finally begin the battle.

Something unexpected happened. Right before Lord Eadmund was able to say anything or give an order, the gates of the fortress started to open. Harris did not know what he had expected, but the musketeers willingly opening their shelter was not one of the options he had believed possible. The creaking sound of the old, wooden gate could be heard even among the English soldiers, and none of them uttered a word. There was absolute silence as they watched the scene unfold in front of them. The English soldiers all took a step back, as if they feared what would come out of those gates.

The musketeers revealed themselves. One by one, they exited the fortress, and started aligning in one formation in front of the gate. Some firearms in the front, the swordsmen behind them. Far enough away so the English muskets would most likely miss most of their targets, but still, they exposed themselves to a risk.

They were all wearing the same uniform, with no leader among them. Yet, it did not look like they needed one. Slowly, they began to move forward.

They all looked more like ghosts than men, more dead than alive. Even from afar, Harris was able to make out how many of them were limping, others sported bandages around their heads and chests. Some of them had to be supported, and again others had the facial color of fresh snow. And their numbers were far fewer than Eadmund had expected.

Still, those were no common men. They were musketeers, and Harris had no reason to believe that everything that was being told about those elite soldiers was a lie. For the first time, despite the fact that the English were clearly superior in numbers, he did not feel confident. He felt afraid.

The musketeers all shared the same look of grim determination on their faces. It seemed like the men knew that this was their last stand, one way or another. Yet, they chose to face their enemy, and charge with everything they had left. They showed courage without ferocity and it made them dangerous as they kept advancing toward their enemy.

Harris couldn't help but stare. It was intimidating, and even though he had developed a hatred for the musketeers due to the fact that he had lost many comrades to their swords, he felt a deep respect forming in his heart. And fear. Because the sight was terrifying.

Lord Eadmund was the only one who did not seem to be intimidated. He just raised a hand, exchanged one last look with Harris, and gave the signal.

"Fire."

* * *

The plan was simple, yet they were putting everything on one card: Treville. The only way out of this seemed to be through it. Athos had not needed to explain very much. The battle was going to happen one way or another, and in the end, it did not matter if they stayed in the fortress or not.

The intention behind Athos' plan had been to do what the English would not expect – face them directly, and give up their shelter. Mostly because their shelter wouldn't have bought them a lot of time with the artillery against them, but also to shake the enemy's morale. Aramis had to admit, it had been good thinking, and he and Porthos had immediately backed Athos up on this.

They had stormed right out of the front gate, revealing themselves and all their weaknesses to the English as they now approached them in the formation of a single line, with all the musketeers that were left. Some might say it was the action of men who had nothing left to lose, but it wasn't true. This way, they forced all of the attention on themselves, and in addition, they shielded the view towards the gate, where the civilians and the wounded, led by Lucien, were sneaking out to run towards the beach.

Athos was quivering with every step he made, and so were the others. They were shaking, with exhaustion, with uncertainty, with nervousness. But not with fear. Near the tree lines, Athos made out the silhouette of a horseman, one that could only be the infamous English General. The English soldiers were aligned to his left, and if Athos was not mistaken, they moved backwards unconsciously. Perhaps, the madness of their plan was not in vain after all. And the dark outlines of the English artillery were aligned behind the wall of soldiers, dark and threatening.

"All for one it is," Aramis murmured to Athos' right, his face a grim mask of determination. Athos took a deep breath.

"And one for all," he answered in unison with Porthos to his left. None of them diverted their gazes from the enemy's front line, none of them slowed down just one bit.

"….one for all." The soft murmur repeated itself through the row of musketeers. Most of them spoke to themselves, others to Athos and his brothers and again others to God. But none of them slowed down. They kept charging into a battle with the odds against them.

Athos felt the presence of Aramis and Porthos by his side, and he realized that should this be their last stand, he was in the best company he could wish for.

Time seemed to slow down. They felt the blood pulsating through their hearts, they felt the cold metal of their swords and pistols against the palms of their hands and they felt the coldness of the wind that blew into their faces.

Near the trees, the first orders were shouted and pierced through the sound of their blood pounding in their ears.

They didn't even look up to face the hail of cannons that would send them straight to hell.

* * *

_Thank you to Laureleaf and Jmp for your kind comments, I really appreciate them! I'll try my best not to keep you waiting for too long for Part II. Thank you._


	27. The Last Stand

_Warning: Graphic descriptions (of violence and battlefield) ahead_

**XXVII. The Last Stand**

_Ten minutes earlier_

"Is it time yet?" Treville was pacing along the side of the small ship, sending impatient stares towards the Captain of the vessel. They were aboard the _Verseau_, a small but robust ship. Not even two miles away, three other French ships, big war ships led by the strongest one, the _Tonnerre_, were engaged in a slow, but deadly exchange of cannon fire with the English blockade.

They were supposed to draw the enemy's attention so that the _Verseau_ would be able to get closer to the shore unnoticed, until they were close enough to launch the rescue boats the ship carried. Additionally, it was not only a distraction so Treville could get his men out, but also so that another ship, filled with fresh soldiers and supplies sent by Richelieu, could land on the other side of the island at Fort de la Prée.

Treville and his men, as well as a few regiments granted to him by the King, had ridden all day and night to get to la Rochelle and Ré Island as fast as possible. The Captain had learnt that the musketeer regiment on Ré Island was believed to be still holding out. His worry for his men had almost consumed his heart and mind, but one of Commander Décart's contacts near la Rochelle had reported that he had received reports of musketeer activity only two days ago.

The Captain and steersman of the _Verseau_, a man named Charles Doix, had his eyes locked on the rough outlines of the wooden fortress, located on the northern shore of the island. Treville had no choice but to trust the man's experience and await his signal until he could lower the boats.

Treville faced the Captain once again. "Is it?" he repeated sharply.

"Not yet," Doix admonished. "In this weather, you won't even reach the shore, let alone make it back. We need to get closer."

Treville hissed something incomprehensible but made sure his frustration was not noticed by his men. They were all aligned on deck, with their weapons ready and their gazes locked on the distant cannon fire, ready to step in and support their friends in battle.

The Captain leaned onto the railing, as the cannons' loud noises tore the night apart. His mission was risky, some called him foolish, but if there were still some of his men to save, he would not abandon them.

They had to hold on. Just a little bit longer.

* * *

When the first hail of cannon balls struck their target, the sound was deafening. As Athos had expected, they impacted against the front wall of the fortress. The sound of splintering wood filled the air, but Athos and the rest of the musketeers did not stop.

He had known that the cannons would not be able to change their trajectory so quickly, so the trick was to stay in motion, to do what Eadmund would not expect. And as soon as the cannons were in a position to attack the musketeers, the civilians would start to escape the fortress and flee to the beach.

It sounded easy, but with the walls crashing down behind them, the clock was ticking until the next salvo would hit them, and this time, it would not be wood flying in all directions.

Everybody had their pistols in hand, prepared, and ready to fire. Aramis and two others were the only marksmen left, but they all had some arquebuses prepared as well.

The English front line did not move forward, probably waiting for the next round of cannon fire to hit their targets first. Athos could see in his enemies' faces that this was not what they had expected. They had prepared for a siege where they were in control and had the upper hand, but now, the odds had evened. At least for the moment.

Much too quickly the next thunder split the air. And the deadly cannon balls struck their target with a little delay. One of the cannon balls hit the ground roughly ten feet in front of the advancing musketeers, swirling around nothing but dirt and rocks. Athos still raised his hand to shield his face.

The second one struck the ground only a few lengths behind them, and the impact gave them a little push forward, leaving some of them stumbling and struggling to keep their footing. The third one, however, struck right on the outer edge of the musketeer formation. Screams of agony filled the air as one musketeer was thrown sideways and another one fell to the ground immediately, like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

Some musketeers were startled, but none of them stopped in their charge. Because, just like Athos had hoped, the cannons were unable to shoot a third time if they didn't want to hit their own men.

"Now!" Athos yelled and everyone aimed their pistols at the first row of the Butcher's men. The thunder of the fired pistols equaled the noise of the cannons from earlier, at least in their ears. The English soldiers, unsure about what to do, or whose orders to follow, did nothing and at least seven to eight men fell dead as the pistols found their targets.

The English marksmen who had been spared didn't wait long with their answer. At least one musketeer crumbled to the ground, shot straight through the chest. Athos heard Porthos hiss next to him as a bullet grazed his arm. But scaring the English had apparently worked, not even half of the shots fired found a target.

The musketeers gave the English no time to recover. In one motion, each and every one of them pulled out their swords and daggers and attacked the first row of English marksmen, who desperately tried to move behind the swordsmen.

The moment steel clashed against steel, their world was swallowed up in chaos. The tense anticipation and nervousness was replaced by a ruthless and angry attempt to get out of this alive, on both sides.

But the fear, and the uncertainty, was evident on both sides as well.

* * *

Porthos was seeing red. He did not know if it was his desperation that fueled him or the pain that had erupted in his arm when that bullet had grazed him, but he plowed through the rows of English soldiers like a battering ram. He had taken his pistol in his left hand and used it to smash against his opponent's head. The man went down immediately, but tried to stab Porthos in the leg in his last moments. Porthos merely jumped over the man on the ground and evaded the blade by kicking it out of the man's hands, before he ended the duel quickly.

Porthos soon had to realize that their original plan, their overall intention of staying together, had not worked out at all. The scene was a muddling mess of soldiers engaged in close combat. The cannons had fallen silent due to the risk of hitting their own men, but the noise had only grown louder.

He did not see Aramis anymore, but he managed to catch a glimpse of Athos out of the corner of his good eye. His friend was doing his best to avoid getting attacked from the left. Porthos did not know where his friend drew his current strength from, but he did prevail.

Before he could plan his next steps, he felt a dull pain as a sword connected with his pauldron. Porthos automatically hit backwards with his elbow and felt a reassuring crack as his punch broke an Englishman's nose. The man howled in pain and stumbled backwards, swinging his sword blindly in front of him to keep Porthos at a distance.

The musketeer merely ducked his head under yet another deadly swing of the blade and, dropping his pistol, grabbed the man's sword arm with his left hand. He wrenched it so hard that the bone snapped. The man dropped his sword, screaming in pain, and Porthos kicked the weapon out of reach before he rendered the soldier unconscious with a headbutt.

His head was ringing and he blinked rapidly to clear his vision. All around him were English uniforms, reminding him of the musketeers' inferiority in numbers once again.

"Behind you!" Guillaume's warning reached him just in time. He felt the hiss of air as the blade missed his head by inches, and Porthos instantly whirled around to face the coward who had tried to stab him from behind. The man was one giant of a man, at least Porthos' height, and with a determined look on his face. The soldier wasted no time and sent a series of strikes against Porthos' sword, but the musketeer was able to parry them with ease.

The man seemed to be a match for Porthos' strength, but he had little to no strategy. He kept advancing with his sword, attacking Porthos' weapon rather than Porthos himself. It took the musketeer not even half a minute to confuse his opponent by launching a quick counter attack, using the parrying dagger in his left hand as support. He didn't even look back as he thrust his own sword through the man's chest.

Porthos exhaled rapidly and turned on the spot to show his gratitude to Guillaume, but the musketeer was busy fighting off two Englishmen at once, standing protectively over a body on the ground.

Porthos' eyes fell on the man down, and he recognized the cadet Frédéric. Though Porthos had originally had no positive feelings for the young man due to his entitled and arrogant attitude, he had shown growth over the course of the past weeks, yes even something like compassion and thoughtfulness.

He leapt forward towards the spot where Guillaume was so fiercely defending their fallen comrade, and he made attempts to come to the musketeer's aid, but Guillaume just yelled at him. "He needs help, I can manage this!"

Porthos felt as if he was acting through somebody else as he dropped to his knees next to Frédéric, but his entire body was on high alert, ready to defend himself. The cadet was still conscious, and his hands immediately clawed onto Porthos' shoulder for support. But Porthos could see the deep cut on his neck. He pressed his gloved hands against it, but he felt useless.

"Shit," he growled and he feared his grip might be so hard he was choking the boy. His eyes wandered down and he saw the dagger sticking out of the cadet's chest. His heart dropped.

Porthos bit his lip in desperation, and did the only thing he could think of.

"Aramis!"

* * *

The blue, piercing eyes of the English soldier were wide open, and he was showing Aramis his teeth as he tried to fight his way back up to his feet. Aramis was sending one strike after the other against the Englishman's blade, keeping the man on his knees but was unable to break his defense.

"Aramis!"

Somewhere amidst the madness of this chaos, Aramis heard his name, and he recognized Porthos' voice. A voice filled with pain and urgency. His heart started racing with worry.

His eyes went wide and the short moment of inattentiveness cost him dearly. His opponent located Aramis' weak spot and kicked him hard on the knee, pulling the ground out right from underneath the marksman's feet. Aramis felt his injured back connect with the muddy ground, and the next moment, he felt a foot connect with his wrist and he lost his grip on his rapier.

Just in time to protect himself against the death blow, Aramis grabbed the pistol from his belt and blocked the sword that came clashing down on him. The steel collided hard with the barrel of the pistol, but the man kept going and used his free hand to grab Aramis' throat. The marksman needed both of his arms to keep the sword away, and he gritted his teeth as he tried to get out of the hold by throwing his head to the side. The choke hold grew even tighter. Just when Aramis considered having one hand free and risking being stabbed in the chest, his opponent's eyes went wide and a barely audible gasp escaped his bloodied lips.

The man went down in an instant, and revealed a sweaty and hard breathing Athos, who pulled his blade out of the soldier with an ugly sound.

Athos offered him his injured arm, but Aramis declined as he did not want to aggravate Athos' wounds. Instead, he scrambled to his knees, recovering his rapier and getting back on his feet. He exchanged a brief look with his brother.

"Go!" Athos merely said before he whirled around to stand his ground against another attacking enemy, clearly he had heard Porthos' yell too.

Aramis didn't have a good feeling about leaving Athos alone, but he knew better than to argue and stumbled towards where he thought Porthos to be. He located his friend closer to the treeline. Porthos was kneeling on the ground, one hand around the neck of someone Aramis recognized as Frédéric. Guillaume stood in front of them, and he was struggling against two English soldiers at once. One of them had landed a heavy punch against the musketeers' jaw, and had broken his defense in the process.

Aramis leapt forward and impaled one of the attackers from behind, before he kicked him to the ground. Guillaume forced the remaining Englishman into a choke hold and gestured to Aramis that he was coping well.

Without wasting another moment, Aramis rushed to Porthos' side and got down on one knee. As soon as Porthos laid eyes on him, he gave him a reassuring nod and stood up to defend Aramis from another English attacker. They didn't need any verbal communication, Aramis just took over and trusted Porthos to cover him.

His eyes quickly wandered over Frédéric. The cadets eyes were closed, and his neck was bleeding heavily from a deep cut. There was a large knife sticking out of his chest. Aramis brought a hand to the neck, frantically searching for any signs of a pulse. But through all the blood, it was hard to be certain. He rested his hand against the young man's chest, only to realize that it wasn't moving. He grabbed the wrist and tried to feel a pulse there, but he felt nothing.

For a short second, he could do nothing but stare at his fallen comrade, and despite the aversion he had felt for Frédéric, his heart broke for the young man. But he wasn't allowed to hesitate for long. He murmured a very short prayer, and in the same movement, he jumped back on his feet as quickly as he could and aided Porthos against his three opponents.

His friend freed himself from one of them by smacking his dagger hard against the enemy's temple, and Aramis grabbed one of the others and used him to get rid of the third, before he threw him into Porthos' waiting blade.

During the short moment of calmness, Porthos grabbed Aramis by the shoulder. He didn't need to say anything.

Aramis merely pressed his lips together and shook his head. "Nothing I could do."

Porthos took a deep breath and squeezed Aramis' shoulder in sympathy, until a group of four Englishmen decided to interrupt their moment of silence.

As the fighting continued, Aramis was involuntarily separated from Porthos' again. He saw and felt how his sword cut through one Englishman after the other, but it was more a self-defensive mechanism. One that cost him all of his remaining strength.

He felt the sweat running down his neck, and heard his own heartbeat over the sound of screaming men and clashing swords. His lungs were burning and he was panting due to the sheer effort of not getting killed.

A tall Englishman with the expression of a frightened ghost threw him backwards against another man, and just when Aramis raised his sword to eradicate the danger at his back, he looked into the eyes of Mathis who stabbed past Aramis' raised arm with a devilish grin. He seemed to be operating on pure battlefield adrenaline.

"Not dead yet then, are you?" Mathis greeted him loudly, but Aramis just growled and saved the young musketeer from a knife to the back. The fallen Englishman in front of him revealed the useless artillery near the treeline, and Aramis saw a few soldiers running towards it, gesturing towards the relatively open area Aramis and Mathis occupied at the moment.

Even from afar, he was able to make out the absolutely terrified faces of the English soldiers, and his concern spiked up immediately. His many years as a soldier had taught him that there a few things as dangerous as a man afraid for his life. He almost heard the loud bang before it was fired.

"Merde!" Aramis cursed and tackled Mathis to the ground as the cannon ball tore apart the earth, only a few lengths away from where they had been standing moments earlier. He covered his head as rocks and dirt rained down upon them, and the impact from the fall had pushed all the air out of his lungs. For a short moment, he lay there, gasping and trying to regain his strength to get back up.

Mathis threw him a grateful nod and pulled him back on his feet, before he plunged back into the crowd of enemies. As much as Aramis wanted to stay where he was and breathe, just for a short moment, he knew this short moment could cost his life. Instead, he went after Mathis and took on an English soldier that launched an attack on Mathis' back.

The soldier was strong, but not a good fighter. Aramis' sword sliced through the skin on his thighs and the man went down with an angry howl.

Now with a short window of clear sight, Aramis watched how Mathis seemed to run towards the outer treeline, right where the English reinforcement troops were hidden behind the artillery, waiting for their orders.

"Where are you going?" Aramis yelled over the head of the attacking Englishman, and angrily forced the man back down as he made attempts for a counter attack.

"I'll go make sure those cannons stay quiet!" Mathis yelled back, but he didn't even cast a glance back and merely continued to fight his way even deeper into enemy territory. Within moments, he was enveloped by an unruly and muddling mass of soldiers. Most of them wore English uniforms.

"Mathis!" Aramis' eyes were filled with terror and he made an attempt to follow the young musketeer, but he was forced to duck his head to avoid getting his throat slit by an English sword. He angrily used his first opponent as a shield and threw him right into the blade of the second attacker, before he tore the Englishman's pistol from his belt and fired the weapon at close range.

His second attempt to run after Mathis was blocked once again, and Aramis got so lost under the chaos and confusion that reigned on the battlefield that he had lost all sense of orientation. He was the more surprised when after he knocked out another English soldier, he found himself side by side with Athos again. His friend's arm was coated in blood, but he was still fighting with a calm and deadly elegance that was more than frightening to a potential enemy. It was an aura only Athos possessed.

"Don't you think," Aramis panted as he shoved his sword through an opponent's chest and kicked him away, "that we may have potentially overestimated ourselves?"

He received nothing but a pained grunt from Athos, but he hadn't expected an answer anyway. Instead, Athos was able to gain the upper hand and end his current duel, but he froze on the spot as his eyes locked onto something a short distance away.

Aramis disarmed his opponent, but was forced into hand to hand combat and eventually managed to hold him in a headlock. The man struggled fiercely, but Aramis wondered why Athos hadn't moved an inch.

He followed Athos' gaze, and his eyes landed on a man in a rather pompous uniform atop a tall horse. Aramis grabbed the loaded pistol from his current victim's weapons belt and threw it towards his friend. He knew that look on Athos' face, and he knew that it was better not to stand in his way.

Athos threw him a doubtful and worried look, but Aramis merely strengthened the hold he had around the Englishman's body as the man struggled to break free.

"I've got this," Aramis assured Athos loudly, and raised his rapier to block an attack from a second opponent. "Go."

* * *

Athos didn't need to be told twice. They had already scared the English soldiers enough with their charge to have made a fight of it. The fact that he was still breathing was enough proof of that. But Eadmund, despite Athos' own personal feelings towards the English General, seemed to be what kept the English going, and what would keep them going until every musketeer on this island was dealt with.

Athos hastily shoved every possible man in his way to the side and stumbled over the rocky terrain and the bodies which littered the ground until he had a clear shot at the Butcher, who was sitting proudly atop his black warhorse. He was using his firearm only and seemingly trying to keep his distance from the battle before him.

Athos steadily raised the pistol Aramis had given him, and he was able to block out everything else around him. He didn't hear the sound of steel anymore, he didn't hear the screaming and grunting of the fighting and dying men. It was only him and Lord Eadmund, at whose chest he calmly aimed with his good arm.

The moment he pulled the trigger was the exact moment the General's horse bolted and reared up. Instead of hitting the General in the chest, the bullet buried itself in the animal's neck. The horse neighed loudly and fell to the side, dead in an instant. Eadmund himself was thrown out of the saddle, his face a mask of surprise.

Athos didn't wait for him to get up and refocus, instead, he crossed the distance between the two of them as quickly as the circumstances allowed him, readjusting his grip on his sword in the meantime.

As soon as he was within a reasonable reach, Athos attacked. The General was only halfway back up on his knees, and that was the only advantage Athos could use. Eadmund was visibly surprised and angered, and he hissed as one of Athos' strikes managed to break through his defense and cut through the skin on his upper chest.

But just as Athos had expected, Lord Eadmund was a good fighter. And he had not endured what Athos had physically endured during the past weeks. From his lower position, Eadmund started a counter attack and he hit Athos' blade so forcefully the swordsman stumbled backwards to keep his footing.

Eadmund used the time to get back on his feet. Athos saw the pistol being aimed at him by the English General just in time to throw himself on the ground. The bullet wheezed over his head and missed him by a good meter. But his new position on the ground made him vulnerable and exposed him too much.

He looked up and saw Eadmund already towering over him, his figure casting a menacing shadow over the fallen musketeer. Athos reacted quickly and desperately. He lashed out with his rapier and his blade sliced through the General's lower leg. It wasn't very deep, but it bought Athos enough time to scramble back to his feet.

By now, Athos did not know where his strength was coming from, but a part of him knew that if he and his brothers wanted to get off the island alive, Lord Eadmund would be their main obstacle. There was also the anger and frustration that he had locked away for weeks now. Eadmund was not to blame for all of it, since Suard's part had not been minor, but somehow this felt personal. After all, it had been Eadmund who had kept Porthos captive, and it had been Eadmund's ships that had killed the marksmen in the farmhouse. Athos knew it was probably hopeless, but there were two things he had not yet lost faith in – his brothers, and his own resistance.

As soon as Athos was back on his feet, Eadmund reopened the duel. The General's face was marred by dirt and a mask of blind anger and the way he fought reminded Athos of Treville. Classy, but with brutal efficiency. And he was not too noble to use dirty tricks if necessary.

But Athos had trained with Treville, who shared his tips with his soldiers. Athos had trained with Porthos, who was a master in hand to hand combat if it came to that. And Athos had trained with Aramis, whose methods were not always classy, but were always deadly.

Athos managed to parry the first flurry of strikes the General sent against his sword, and he made a step to the side to launch a counter attack which took Eadmund by surprise. He stumbled and avoided Athos' blade only with a good amount of luck.

Athos on the other hand dove underneath Eadmund's outstretched sword arm and lashed forward, but he missed. Instead, he grabbed the General by the collar and threw him to the ground. Eadmund swung his sword violently while he was on the ground and Athos was forced to step back, during which time the General scrambled back to his feet.

But he didn't attack. Instead, he eyed Athos suspiciously, and almost seemed to be trying to give Athos a breathing spell.

"It's you," Eadmund shouted over the turmoil, and he pointed at Athos with the tip of his sword. "I knew it when I first laid eyes on you. Now that your General is dead, you have taken charge haven't you?" He lashed out with his rapier and missed Athos' neck only by a hair breadth. "In a way, I admire you."

"Guess that was your first mistake," Athos hissed and made a step to the side, wasting no time and sending a couple of well placed strikes down on Eadmund's sword. The General was forced backwards into defense, but he had spotted Athos' weakness. And he aimed right at it.

Before Athos was able to react, Eadmund attacked his left side, which resulted in Athos almost losing his parrying dagger and earning a deep cut on his left hand as he lacked the strength in the arm to lift the weapon in order to parry effectively. Just in time, he pulled up his rapier to catch the second strike that followed and Eadmund's sword clashed against his own.

"My first mistake?" Eadmund spoke, gritting his teeth at the effort. "Then what's my second?" He pushed hard against Athos' blade. Athos used every ounce of strength he had left to keep his own sword away from his own throat, as Eadmund was trying to use his own blade to end the duel.

Dark spots were dancing in Athos' vision, but he managed to keep both hands on his rapier, trying to steer it away from his throat. And then, behind the blurry outlines of Lord Eadmund's concentrated face, he saw the answer to the question he hadn't bothered to answer.

One of the figures behind the General lashed out with his rapier and Eadmund let out a pained shout when the metal pierced through a hole in his shoulder armor.

"Forgetting that he isn't alone," Aramis growled and Porthos ended the sentence with a heavy punch to the General's face. The force against Athos' sword disappeared and the swordsman stumbled backwards to regain his footing and his balance.

Lord Eadmund held his shoulder, his sword was dragging through the dirt as he turned to look at Aramis and Porthos, who kept him at distance with their swords. He looked like a wounded animal, but still, in this scheme of things, he was the predator.

"And I thought stabbing a man in the back was an act of cowardice," the General panted and straightened up again, his face a grimace of pain.

Aramis' head twitched to the side. "Made an exception for the sake of my friends." Aramis was seemingly struggling to keep his rapier up. Adrenaline seemed to be the only thing keeping him going. "And besides, I don't need the Butcher of La Rochelle to lecture me about honor."

Porthos nodded in agreement. "I'm sure the innocent inhabitants of this island would have liked to have a say in this before their homes were blown to bits." His voice dripped with spite.

"This is war," the General wiped away the blood from his face and grasped his weapons even tighter. "We all try to win without losing our humanity." He sent a sharp glare towards Porthos. "And sometimes, we fail."

Athos narrowed his eyes, and those words made him question whether he would have acted so differently in Lord Eadmund's position. No matter the history, or all this man had or hadn't done before, they all had one thing in common – they had been following orders and trying to survive.

And then, without another word, Eadmund attacked. The General might have been outnumbered, but Aramis, Porthos and Athos were only at half of their strength, at most. All three of them were bleeding, and all three of them were hurting. The Butcher on the other hand had spent most of the battle safely atop his horse.

And nothing fueled a man like his own survival instinct. He launched his first attack against Porthos who stood closest to him. The quick and precise strikes were hard to parry with Porthos' broadsword and the tall musketeer had to take a hard hit against his shoulder which threw him off balance. Before Eadmund could make an attempt to go for the killing blow, Aramis intervened. The marksman's attacks lacked his usual speed, but he was able to steer the General away from Porthos before Eadmund sent him back to the ground with a heavy blow against his injured leg, which destroyed every bit of balance Aramis had had.

This time, Eadmund didn't even bother to finish the duel, instead he turned around and fixed his eyes on Athos, an angry and dangerous glint in his eyes. As long as the General was still armed, Athos feared this was a duel he could only lose.

Out of the corner of his eye, Athos saw how both Aramis and Porthos were now under attack by an Englishman whose uniform gave him the rank of a Captain. Both musketeers were physically struggling to compete against him, but they stood their ground.

Athos remembered an old trick Treville had taught him on the training ground many months ago. It required a physical strength he wasn't sure he possessed at the moment, but it was his only chance. He saw how Eadmund lifted his sword in his wrath, ready to take Athos down by any means necessary, and it was in that exact moment Athos threw himself forward. The blade hissed past his side and merely scratched the skin on his cheek, but he had aimed for the General's arm. He punched backwards with his elbow which elicited a pained grunt out of Eadmund, and then he used his main gauche and slit through the Englishman's sword arm.

The reaction was immediate. Eadmund howled in pain and dropped the sword, but the heavy punch as he struggled to get free cost Athos his last remaining weapon as he lost his footing and crushed to the ground.

He had just enough time to turn onto his back when Lord Eadmund suddenly appeared above him. He hadn't bothered to reclaim his weapon, instead, he kneed Athos in the stomach and his hands reached for Athos' neck. Athos instinctively raised his right forearm to block an attack, but it was useless. The General's cold and bloody knuckles punched him hard and then he felt fingers clawing into his neck.

Panic got hold of him and while he used his right arm to try to block the General, his useless left hand kept scrambling through the dirt trying to find something with which to fight back. He tasted blood in his mouth and his vision began to blur. All he saw was the angered and determined face of Lord Eadmund above him. Athos gave up on trying to block the man with his forearm and instead found the wound in the General's back from when Aramis had stabbed him earlier.

Eadmund let go of Athos' neck briefly and brutally slapped his hand away, but it was all Athos needed.

His left hand had found something familiar. He felt almost nothing when he used the short moment of distraction and without hesitation plunged the dagger into the General's chest. The reaction was immediate. Eadmund's eyes went wide and he gasped, before his hand reached for the dagger he could not extract.

His eyes found Athos again, and his lips were quivering as blood ran down his chin. He managed to move to the side before he went limp and crumbled to the ground next to Athos, the hatred and anger disappearing from his eyes as they stared into the void.

Athos gasped for air and coughed, and he tried to calm his racing heart as the pain in his arm became unbearable.

Slowly but surely, the noise of the battle returned to his ears and threatened to deafen him. He looked up from the ground and searched for his friends.

Aramis was on the ground, bleeding heavily from his leg, and seemingly unable to get up. Porthos was only a few feet away, choking and retching as his muscles refused to cooperate in his desperate attempt to struggle back to his feet. The English Captain stared at the defeated musketeers in front of him. He was only one strike away from killing them. Both Aramis and Porthos had nowhere left to go, and Athos was a captive of his own numb shock as he realized that he would not be quick enough to save either of them.

But the English Captain merely lowered his weapon and looked toward his dead commanding officer. The man's gaze slowly wandered over the three of them, Athos included, and then he just gave them a brief nod, before he turned on his heel and disappeared behind the other men still engaged in combat. If Athos was not mistaken, he had seen something almost like respect paired with a tinge of fear on the Englishman's face before he had spared the lives of his brothers.

Athos climbed over the body of the Butcher of La Rochelle towards his friends, before he ultimately collapsed into the dirt. His arm was burning like hellfire and leaking with fresh blood, his world was spinning and dark spots were dancing in his vision.

He heard Porthos' panting to his right and Aramis' heavy breathing to his left, assuring him that they were still there and still alive. And then, the winds of battle changed, the atmosphere became a different one. Athos heard more boots marching on the ground; he heard some men's victorious yells and the fearful cursing of others.

Maybe a rescue, maybe Buckingham was sending English support, Athos did not know. It didn't matter. Because all he saw were English uniforms, dancing with swords, and himself and his defeated brothers, right in the middle, with no way out.

* * *

It was the all too well-known smell of sweat and blood, mixed with the stench of gunpowder and salted with the scent of the sea that had threatened to numb Treville's senses as he had first put his feet on the ground of Ré Island.

The situation had not been what he had expected, and even though every fiber of his being wanted to get his men out of the grotesque and violent battle scene that was unfolding in front of him, he had needed to get the civilians and the injured musketeers that were with them out first. He had ordered five of his men to get them back to the _Verseau_, and in the meantime, he and the others infiltrated the battlefield to support the remaining musketeers who were still fighting.

One by one, Treville pulled out the fighting musketeers. Most of them were dead on their feet, and they were only standing thanks to sheer will power alone. He had them brought to the shore and to the boats. The battle had started to turn, and the English were slowly beginning to realize that they had no longer held the upper hand.

As Treville's gaze swerved over the battlefield, he desperately kept looking for any last men standing. The musketeers he had saved so far were not even half of what he had sent here weeks ago.

In the middle of the mess of abandoned weapons and fallen men, Treville finally found them. Together.

Porthos, Aramis and Athos were on the ground close by, disarmed, injured and unable to defend themselves. The support troops were already beginning to shield the injured men from the English, but the English attackers barely seemed to pay attention to them anyway.

The Captain rushed over to their sides, and took in a deep breath of relief as he was greeted with three pairs of open eyes that looked at him, first hostile, then relieved.

"Captain," Aramis exhaled slowly and the hint of a grin played around his lips. "Your timing is impeccable."

"I have a reputation for that," Treville countered shortly. He pulled Porthos up by his arm and then walked over to Athos.

"Come, come!" Treville roughly pulled Athos into a sitting position, wincing inwardly at the pained gasp that escaped the swordsman's lips.

"We can't, we have to…" Porthos mumbled, keeping a firm grip on his sword. His confused gaze wandered over the battlefield.

"Look at me!" Treville grabbed him by the shoulder. "This is not your fight anymore. You have done all you can, now it's time for others to do their part."

Porthos stared and blinked slowly as if he hadn't understood him, but then, he nodded.

"The other musketeers?" That was Aramis' voice, and Porthos grabbed his friend's arm and pulled him up to his feet.

"You're the last ones," Treville answered shortly and cast a quick glance towards the shifted battlefield. The men he had brought with him were forming a line in front of him and were pushing the English toward the treeline, but there was no musketeer left to save aside from the three men in front of him.

They didn't need any more convincing. Porthos grabbed Aramis and they held each other up as they made their way towards the beach, Treville steadied Athos who leaned onto the Captain heavily.

As soon as they arrived at the beach, he helped the three of them into the boat the musketeer Ecale had prepared, where they collapsed onto the wood.

Treville gave the signal and jumped into another boat and their small fleet of rescue boats departed the shore, bringing the injured and exhausted musketeers back towards the ship, back to safety.

The further they rowed, the more the battle noises died down. Treville's job wasn't done yet, as he had to return to get the relief troops off the island too, but seeing some of the soldiers he had sent here weeks ago alive and breathing was the only consolation he needed right now.

Silence hung over them and it was only disrupted by the harsh and heavy breathing, and the soft panting of the men trying to contain their pain. Their eyes were locked on the shore, which grew more distant with every moment that passed.

In their eyes was the reflection of the fire burning down the remains of the wooden fortress. They thought about what they had lost there, and few wasted a thought of what they had won. And despite all, there was a common sensation read from every soldier's face – relief. That they had survived yet another hell on earth.

Treville's gaze wandered towards the boat to his left.

Aramis' head rested on his knee, his other leg was stretched out as far as the boat allowed him. His left hand was clasped around his bloodied leg, the other one rested against Athos' severely injured arm. It looked like a mixture of medical aid and spiritual assurance. Athos, in front of him, held his head up high, and his gaze was locked on the distant shore, his pale face giving nothing away.

Porthos next to both of them still had both of his hands on their shoulders as he had when he had helped them onto the boat, as if the danger had not yet passed, and he was the only thing shielding his friends from death. His eyes found Treville's, and the look he gave his Captain spoke more words than Treville ever needed. Porthos managed a small nod, before his attention too turned towards the distant shore.

Whatever had happened during the past weeks, it had drawn these men even closer together. It was a silent and effortless reliance on one another that Treville could feel between those three, a strength that they shared with each other. And he knew that it was only thanks to this brotherhood that there had been men left to rescue at all. And as he looked at them, he could tell they felt it too.

The clouds were beginning to clear, and slowly but surely they were able to get a glimpse of the setting sun on the horizon.

Its rays reflected in the irises of the musketeers eyes, sparking a new hope as they left the island and everything that had happened there behind them.

* * *

_We still have the Epilogue to go. I'll try to get it done soon. Thank you for reading._


	28. Letting Go

**XXVIII. Letting Go**

While most of the boats had brought the people back to the ship, it was decided that the boats carrying Treville, Athos, Aramis and Porthos would row directly back to the mainland on their own. Mainly because Aramis had sternly insisted that, first, none of them were in any condition to climb back on board a ship, and second, the naval battle was at a safe distance and they were in no immediate danger. The weather was calm too, leaving only a soft breeze and minor waves on their way back to the mainland. Treville had ordered the Captain of the _Verseau_ to coordinate the removal from Ré Island of the support troops which he had left to finish dealing with the English. He didn't go back himself only because he knew they were out of danger for now.

The silence that hung over them was oppressive, and the Captain felt a certain relief when the boats finally reached the shallow beach of the mainland, landing near the docks. He had watched his soldiers all the way back, as much as the night had allowed him, and he had come to the conclusion that Ré Island must have been far worse than he had expected. From his experience, many soldiers that returned from war boasted about their victories or told stories about their struggles. But those who really fought at the front line, they stayed silent.

They were soldiers, and they knew what could await them when they followed their orders. But more had happened on Ré Island, more than just a siege, more than just a battle. Treville knew it by the looks on their faces, by the wounds they carried, and by the small number of musketeers he had been able to get out at all.

Whatever hellish events had marked their time on the island, it had strengthened the bond of these three even further, which was a good result, though gained at a terrible cost. But Treville had learnt very early in his life that things of great value can come where least expected.

As soon as the boats were safely landed, Treville jumped out and helped Aramis out of the boat while Porthos guided Athos. Now that the adrenaline and survival instincts the battle had sparked were fading, his men were only moments away from collapsing entirely.

Treville's mind screamed at him for answers, but the alarming state Athos, Aramis and Porthos were in restrained his need for information, and his sense of brotherhood prevailed. Together with the musketeer Ecale who had rowed the second boat, he brought them over to the docks, where all three of them sat down on the wooden planks.

Porthos turned his head to look for the ship carrying the civilians and the rest of the musketeers, but the _Verseau_ was still a short distance away from the docks, as it had taken time to get everyone on board.

"We have a cart that will pick up you and the others up as soon as the _Verseau_ arrives," Treville explained matter-of-factly, to answer the questions his men did not pose. "We will bring you to a temporary medical facility five miles north, near Marans. You will be treated there, and then, I will bring you home to Paris."

He saw how the mention of home made Aramis and Porthos exchange a meaningful and desperately relieved look.

"What about the civilians?" Athos asked, his voice barely more than a whisper. He didn't even look up.

Treville sighed. "As long as Buckingham is still on the island, we cannot allow them to go back. We will bring them with us to Marans, and from there they can decide what to do with their lives."

Athos nodded, but still didn't look up. He had rested his head on his forearm.

"Why don't we go to La Rochelle?" Aramis asked and he grimaced as he moved his bleeding leg. "It's closer, and I am sure they can help us there."

Treville lowered his gaze. "La Rochelle is under siege. The city formed an alliance with the English. The King sent out his army a few weeks ago. It is not a safe place."

Aramis groaned and buried his head in his hands, which left even more bloody marks on his already bloodied face.

"Thank you, Captain," Porthos spoke up. "For getting us out of there."

Treville managed a thin smile and nodded. "Is there anything I can do for you until we reach Marans?"

Athos stayed silent, and Porthos just shook his head.

"Well," Aramis grimaced and looked up, holding up his hand coated with fresh blood. "I could use something to bandage my leg with, otherwise, I fear I won't make it to Marans." He made a short pause and looked to his brothers. "We need something for Athos' arm. I can treat the bleeding, but we need something to slow the infection. Cleaning the wounds would be helpful."

The fact that Athos didn't even react with a testy comment or try to protest told Treville a lot about how serious things really were.

"And Porthos' shoulder is dislocated, I believe. Athos and I are in no condition to put it back in place," Aramis finished.

Treville wordlessly pulled out a can of water and handed it to them. They drank greedily, but made sure to share it equally.

"I'll insure you get what you need," Treville eventually answered and as he looked up, he saw the outlines of the _Verseau_ getting closer. He gestured towards it with his head.

"They are coming. Let's get you home."

* * *

_Two days later, near Marans_

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, Porthos had been able to sleep properly, meaning longer than three hours, and he at least felt halfway rested when he woke up at sunrise. He and the others had been brought to the infirmary close to Marans. It was a small, wooden building, but the house and the few that surrounded it had been occupied by the musketeers for the past several days. There was shelter, there was medical treatment, and there was a tavern which provided them with food and gave the civilians some places to sleep.

The captain had informed them yesterday that if they felt strong enough, they would be leaving this afternoon to make their way back to Paris. Porthos could not wait to make his way back to Paris. The medical examination two days ago by a real doctor brought in from a village nearby had proven that Aramis' assessments were quite accurate.

It had turned out that Porthos had bruised a few ribs during his encounter with the English Captain. Additionally, he had a dislocated shoulder which Treville had popped back into place, but the swelling was still painful. There was some nasty bruising going all over his back, but Porthos somehow couldn't remember when that had happened. His eye was finally healing nicely, and the dizziness that had plagued him ever since he had been held captive was beginning to disappear.

Aramis had received treatment for his leg first. On top of the wound he had suffered many weeks ago in Cévry, the English Captain had inflicted a deep and bleeding gash going all the way over his thigh and knee. It would leave a scar, but Aramis had been told he should be able to walk without assistance again soon. The wound on his back from the farmhouse incident had been cleaned and stitched. The marksman was still limping around, a little too much for Porthos' liking, but slowly and surely, the color was returning to his brother's face.

Athos had held them all in a grip of fear until last evening. He had lost consciousness on their way to Marans and hadn't stirred until yesterday. Aramis had cursed him for being a stubborn idiot, but Porthos knew it had been the worry that had controlled his friend's tongue. Athos' left arm had been a mess of fresh cuts in addition to the two inflamed gashes. Luckily infection hadn't spread to his blood, and his temperature had been falling since yesterday. Aside from his arm, Athos had sported a sprained knee and some major bruising along his left side. Porthos had wondered how Athos had made it off the island still standing, but he was just thankful that he, Athos and Aramis had all made it out of that hell hole alive.

All three of them were still exhausted, but the fresh air and the change of atmosphere slowly allowed them to calm down and get the rest they had so desperately needed.

After Porthos had awoken this morning and had found both Athos and Aramis still fast asleep, he had left the infirmary and slowly made his way over to the tavern to get some water. They were keeping it there in bottles, and Porthos feared he would not be able to use the well in his current condition.

He strode over towards the two story building that was the tavern. The civilians had been brought to the barn right next to it, which belonged to the owners of the tavern. Porthos slowed his pace as soon as he laid eyes on Lucien, the village spokesman, standing in front of the building next to Marie and her daughter, the child Porthos had rescued during the attack on Cévry.

He briefly considered not going to the tavern in order to avoid any confrontation or conversation, but deep inside, he knew that would be childish. Besides, he was really in need of some water, and the tavern was the best place to get it.

He had almost made it to the stairs when he heard Lucien's voice.

"Porthos?"

The musketeer groaned internally and stopped before he turned towards the man hurrying towards him. Lucien looked genuinely pleased to see him, and Porthos seriously did not know why. Marie granted him a warm smile and sat her daughter down onto the ground.

Lucien nervously shifted from one foot to the other. "We did not know if you or the others made it out … your Captain won't let us into the infirmary."

"For good reason, it is for the injured only," Marie added sharply and glared at Lucien, before her attention snapped back towards Porthos.

"Still, the Captain could have been more polite," Lucien grumbled and now also earned a sharp look from Porthos, who couldn't help but be amused at the slightly frightened expression the memory of the Captain's reaction conjured on Lucien's face.

"What about your friends?" Marie asked shyly, as if she was afraid of the answer, but Porthos gave her a reassuring smile.

"Athos and Aramis survived too." His face darkened. "Many others didn't." He sighed and raised his hands in refusal. "Listen, as much as I'd love to tell you what you want to know, I really need to get something to drink."

Marie once again gave him one of her warm smiles and she pulled a can of water out of her bag to give it to Porthos. "I got it this morning. It's still fresh."

Porthos nodded his head gratefully and took a few deep sips of water. The cool liquid against his dry throat felt good, and he almost felt how it restored his strength and refocused his senses. He wordlessly walked over towards the stairs and sat down on it, fully aware that he was being followed by Lucien and Marie.

"How are you feeling?" he asked them and took another sip of water.

Lucien shrugged. "We're alive. We lost our homes and everything we have ever known, but we're still breathing." He looked at the ground, almost in shame. "I was afraid we would never get to thank you. For what you and your comrades did for us."

Porthos just raised a hand. "Listen, I appreciate it, I really do, but it was our duty." He lowered his gaze. "We just did our duty."

Marie hesitantly sat down next to Porthos. "Your duty was also to do what your General told you, and if you had done that, many of us would have starved."

The musketeer said nothing, he merely took another sip of water and stared at the ground.

"I know what you did for us," Lucien added. "And I'm ashamed to say, not all of us would have done the same for you."

Porthos snorted. "That's a comfort."

"What I am trying to say is," Lucien began anew and sat down on Porthos' other side, "is that your selfless act of charity and help will not be forgotten by us, no matter our …" he cleared his throat nervously, "religious affiliation."

Porthos just raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

"You did not think twice before rescuing us. You did not care about our past or about what we could do for you. Generosity like that is rare these days. I apologize for making things more complicated in the beginning." Lucien sounded sincere, and Porthos just made a dismissive gesture with his hand.

"Will you go back to Ré Island?" Porthos asked carefully.

Marie nodded. "Many of us will, as soon as it is no longer a battleground." She bit her lip indecisively. "Porthos, is there anything we can do to repay you?"

The musketeer just grunted. "Survive." His comment elicited a dry laughter out of both of them. Marie's daughter, the little girl that he had rescued in the village, walked up to Porthos and handed him a few flowers she had plucked from the grass close by. She was shy, but she had a proud spark in her eyes.

"Maman said you would like them," she said, her voice barely more than a whisper, and Porthos put on his best smile and graciously took them between his hands.

"I do," he answered softly. "Thank you."

The girl smiled shyly and hid behind her mother. Porthos' face turned serious again, and he turned towards Marie, though he kept throwing glances towards Lucien as well. He cleared his throat nervously before he spoke.

"Actually, there is something you can do." Lucien looked curious and doubtful, but Marie had a heartwarming look on her face.

Porthos kept his gaze firmly locked on her. "Should you ever return to Ré Island, please give my fallen comrades the commemoration they deserve. They deserve better than being forgotten in the dirt where they fell."

He wasn't sure about their reaction, but he felt Marie's hand on his arm and she forced him to look at her. "Of course. We will take care of your brave comrades. We will give them the respect they deserve."

"And our children will know what the musketeers did for them," Lucien added with an unusual sincerity.

Porthos pressed his lips together tightly. "Thank you."

* * *

Aramis had thought to have awoken early in the morning, but when he had opened his eyes, he had discovered that Porthos' bed was already empty. Aramis' night had been plagued with the echoes of cannons and the screaming of men, and he felt as if he had been run over by a horse, or several horses and maybe a wagon or two.

A quick glance to the side assured him that Athos was still sleeping in a cot nearby. The swordsman's face had a much healthier color now, and the fact that he was actually sleeping was something Aramis considered a win after the past few days.

The marksman sat up and his hands twitched towards his leg. It was broadly bandaged, and to his own surprise, the bandage was still clean and barely spotted with blood. The wounds were pulsating painfully, but considering how he had felt two days ago, he was coping just fine.

He ran a hand through his way too long hair and beard, before he carefully put his boots on and threw his jacket over his shoulders. He had slept in his pants and a torn white shirt. He knew that he and his brothers were leaving this afternoon, but he needed to get a bit of fresh air before he spent time assisting the doctor that usually came around this time of the day.

Aramis grabbed his temporary cane from the ground next to him and slowly rose to his feet, before he started limping towards the door. Almost every surviving musketeer that had fought on Ré Island during the past weeks was in the infirmary, as there was not one soul that had left the island unharmed. The 'beds' were more linen sheets on the wooden floor padded with some straw, but compared to the island, it was pure luxury. Most of the musketeers were still asleep or staring blankly at the ceiling.

On his way to the door, he passed the bed where Guillaume was currently residing. Théo sat next to him and urged him to stay in bed. After having defended Frédéric so fiercely on the battlefield, Guillaume had taken a heavy hit against the head as well as a sword to the side. He had assured everyone who had wanted to hear it that he was fine, but Théo, one of the lucky few who had escaped with only scrapes and bruises, was having none of it.

As he was arguing with Guillaume, Théo caught Aramis' gaze and greeted him with a slight nod, before his attention reverted back to the stubborn patient. The marksman continued to stumble towards the door, to get a bit of fresh air before he would look after his brothers. Maybe he'd also find out where Porthos had gone.

"Aramis."

Aramis froze when he heard his name, spoken by a familiar voice, and he grabbed onto the side of a wooden pillar to keep his balance. It took him a few moments to gather himself, and to prepare himself for the conversation he had avoided ever since they had arrived here.

He turned around and faced the musketeer that had addressed him. Arthur was sitting up in his cot, leaning awkwardly against the wall behind him. His chest was covered with a broad bandage, heavily spotted with blood. Sweat had gathered on his neck, and his face looked ashen. His eyes were only halfway open, blinking tiredly at Aramis, but still, he looked far better than he had only two days ago.

Aramis slowly approached the wounded musketeer and knew by the tone in Arthur's voice that the musketeer was longing for news. He was longing for company. Just like Athos, Arthur had shown the first signs of real awareness only yesterday, but back then, Aramis had had his hands so full with taking care of Athos that he had not had the time to look after Arthur. In hindsight, he felt guilty.

"How are you feeling?" Aramis asked carefully, and he tried hard to maintain an objective tone to his voice.

The hint of a smile played around Arthur's lips, but it vanished quickly. "I'll be fine. In time. I didn't get to thank you yet."

Aramis furrowed his brow. "For what?"

Arthur grimaced as he tried to sit up further. "You saved my life on that beach, because you put my life above yours."

"No, I put your life above Philippe's." Aramis did not feel guilty about it, yet he couldn't help but sound as if he did. It had been the only reasonable choice he could make at the time, knowing as he did that Philippe was not going to make it, but Arthur still had a chance if he could get help.

Despite the sorry state he was in, Arthur sent the marksman an admonishing look. He was a few years older than Aramis, and therefore always had been a guide to every other musketeer in the regiment, Aramis included. They had both been in the regiment since its foundation. And even though Arthur was a man of many facets, aside from his occasional drunken violent outbursts and his famous stand-off with Treville, he was one of the most honest and respected men in the regiment.

"You did what you had to do to save as many of us as possible," Arthur replied calmly. For a moment, he had a soft and calm expression on his face, and then, it changed. He lowered his gaze and his lips were quivering as he spoke his next words.

"Treville was here last night. He talked to me briefly, but there was one question I wasn't able to ask as I blacked out." Arthur looked composed, but Aramis could see the unshed tears that had gathered in his eyes. "Aramis, what happened to Mathis?"

Aramis felt a wave of dismay and guilt wash over him at the mention of the name. He had known that there was some kind of connection between Mathis and Arthur, though he had never asked. But deep in his heart, he knew that if anybody deserved the truth without excuses, it was Arthur.

"During the battle, Mathis went to take out the cannons. Treville said his men have not been able to find him, not among the living, not among the dead. He just…disappeared."

Arthur's face darkened. "People don't just disappear, and you know that."

The marksman closed his eyes, and the pictures of the young musketeer disappearing in between the English soldiers flashed in front of his inner eye. "No they don't," he whispered, opened his eyes again and looked straight at Arthur. "There is a possibility he made it to Fort de la Prée. If not, there is only one fate left."

Arthur exhaled slowly. "English captivity."

Aramis bit his lip and lowered his gaze. "Yes. I am so sorry, Arthur. I wish…"

"Do you think you could have saved him?" Arthur interrupted matter-of-factly. He did not sound reproachful, it was more of a calm and slightly desperate question.

Aramis chose his next words with care. "I tried. Believe me, I tried. But he had his mind set on taking out those cannons, and I just couldn't…I couldn't stop him. And I could not get through to him. Wherever he is, he is out of our reach."

A tear ran down Arthur's face, but he winced and leaned forward to clasp Aramis' arm, squeezing it slightly. "I believe you, Aramis. It's not your fault." His gaze found the ceiling, and he seemed to be remembering something. A sad smile played around his lips, but a loving spark returned to his eyes.

"You see, I promised her to look after him. Seeing her again will not be the same." He noticed Aramis' confused look, and as he weakly leaned back against the wall, he explained. "Christine. Mathis' oldest sister. I've loved her for eighteen years. But," he stopped midway, and took a deep breath as a visible painful memory seemed to get hold of him. "She married because I missed my chance. Her husband raised Mathis well, but so did I, to a degree."

For a moment, nobody said anything. Aramis was at a loss at what to say, and Arthur was clearly hesitant to share such private information with him.

"And does she love you?" Aramis eventually asked. He did not want to dig his nose into affairs that weren't his, but he felt like he needed to understand Arthur's dilemma in order to provide comfort.

Arthur nodded weakly. "We never stopped loving each other. Her marriage did not stop us. And when Mathis joined the musketeers, well…I became his chaperone. Guess I failed her twice."

Aramis shook his head vigorously. "You did not fail her. And you did not fail Mathis either. He fell victim to something out of our control, and there is no use to blame yourself for it. It won't help anyone. Not Mathis, not his sister, not you."

The older musketeer needed a few seconds to comprehend and accept Aramis' words. He took a deep breath, as if he hadn't said all of it yet. Arthur seemed to gather the courage to speak up again, and as he did, he couldn't even look Aramis in the eye.

"Aramis, I…I will not go back to Paris with you. I will not go back to the musketeers."

Even though Aramis had had a feeling deep inside that this would be the case, it still hit him hard. He was in no position to judge anyone for leaving, but while leaving the musketeers was something Aramis did not consider possible for his own path in life, it seemed more within the reach of others.

Arthur continued with an unsteady voice: "When we were on that beach with Philippe, all I could think of, every second, was how much I regretted never having taken the chance. Call me foolish all you want, but I'll try to make things right with Christine. Now that her husband is dead maybe God will grant me a second chance; maybe I'll have to take another path entirely."

Aramis bit his lip. "Does the Captain…?"

Arthur blinked as confirmation. "He was the first to know. It was the first thing I said to him, and I believe he understands. Please don't think ill of me."

The marksman offered his comrade a pained smile. "I would never. None of us will."

Arthur's face was a mixture of gratitude and pain as he reached to the side and pulled out a blue sash, the one he had always worn for as long as Aramis could remember. It was stained with dirt and blood.

"Take this," he said, his voice slowly growing hoarse. "It has a deep personal meaning to me. Should Mathis ever find his way back to the musketeers, no matter how slim the chance, could you give this to him?"

Aramis reached out and took the piece of cloth between his hands, before he nodded. A lump had formed in his throat, and no matter how strong he tried to stay, this conversation weighed heavy on his heart.

"Until then," Arthur continued with a weak smile as a few tears continued to run down his pale face, "it is yours. Fully and truly. Wear it with pride, old friend."

Not a sound escaped Aramis' lips, but he once again nodded his head in gratitude and he offered an honest and warm smile.

Arthur's eyes began to close as the exhaustion and pain threatened to overwhelm him.

"I'll miss being a musketeer," he murmured, but it was barely audible.

Aramis clasped Arthur's shoulder in comfort. "You will always be a musketeer, Arthur."

* * *

_Later that day_

Athos was seated outside of the infirmary on a wooden bench while he waited for the return of Aramis and Porthos, before they would start their journey back to Paris.

His bandaged left arm was resting on his knees, and he had a cup of fresh wine in the other hand. As soon as he had felt able to stand up again, he had insisted on getting out of the pain-filled infirmary. It smelled of blood and sweat in there, with a hint of decay. The air outside was not the best either, but it was better than being reminded of Ré Island with every breath he took.

He looked up when he heard the creaking of a door to his right and he laid eyes on Treville who had just left the provisional armory. Though armory was a rather fancy word for the small room in which everybody had thrown their broken weapons and ruined uniforms.

Athos greeted him with a brief nod before he returned his attention to his wine, but Treville pulled up a chair from the side and sat down next to him.

"Should you be up and around?" the Captain commented with a worried expression on his face.

Athos looked up. "Nobody stopped me."

Treville sighed. "You feel strong enough to make the trip back to Paris this afternoon?" he asked casually. Athos could hear that it was not what the Captain really wanted to know. Treville had never been good at small talk.

Athos growled. "If we don't get attacked by Buckingham on our way there, I should be fine."

The Captain answered him with a dry, humorless laugh. "No promises."

An uncomfortable silence settled between them, but one with which Athos was fully content. He kept focusing on the wine, and tried to ignore the questions that hung in the air unspoken. It was not that he did not want to share his experiences with Treville. Next to Aramis and Porthos, there was no person on this earth he trusted as much as he trusted the Captain. But he was skeptical about the reaction his reports may cause.

After not even a minute, Treville finally spoke up. "What the hell happened over there, Athos? And I don't mean the strategic facts and the siege, you know I don't." The Captain made a short pause and ran a hand over his beard. "Barely half of the men have returned at all. I know the faces of men returning from the front line. After all they have seen, but with you…" he stopped as if he took a second to rearrange his thoughts. "With you, and the other few musketeers, there is something else. Something that goes beyond military strategies and battlefield experiences."

Athos took another deep sip of his wine and then lowered the cup. He chose his next words very carefully.

"We betrayed our duty," he said quietly. He was completely still, his sharp eyes rested calmly on his Captain. "The orders we were given, the orders that we were told would ensure our survival, were immoral. We disobeyed them. And I would like to tell you I regret it, Sir, I really would, but I don't. The General was deliberately getting rid of the musketeers, and while we can guess, we still don't understand why." He made sure that the Captain understood that he felt no remorse about disobeying the General.

Treville furrowed his brow. "What do you mean, he was getting rid of the musketeers?"

Athos huffed and took a deep sip out of the cup of wine. "What would you do if your commanding officer sends the only medic out on a dangerous and potentially deadly mission?"

The Captain hesitated a split second, and shook his head as if he hadn't understood what Athos was aiming at. "I'd ask him how he ever made it to his rank with illogical reasoning like that."

A dark expression crossed Athos' face. "Yes. That's what we did. But I refuse to believe the General was merely incompetent. He knew exactly what he was doing. What I or the others did to…"

"What was his name?" the Captain interrupted suddenly. Trevilles eyes were wide open, and he didn't look at Athos. It was as if a memory had returned for him, a memory that Athos was left to confirm for him. "The General, you never mentioned his name."

"Suard," Athos replied. "The Commander sent us General Suard."

Athos could see his words reach Treville, and he knew that face on the Captain. Realization. Paired with guilt.

Treville rose from his seat and walked over to the window to look into the infirmary. "Commander Décart sent you General Suard to take over the command?"

Athos narrowed his eyes. He felt as if one last piece of the Suard puzzle was missing, and he had a feeling the Captain could help him complete it.

"What do you know, Captain?" He tried to sound as polite as he could, but this was Treville, his mentor, he was talking to, not Treville, his Captain.

"It was not you, Athos." The Captain turned around to face the swordsman again, his face the unreadable mask Athos was used to. "It wasn't you, it wasn't Aramis, it wasn't Porthos. If it was General Suard who took over command, I am not surprised that Gino has not returned with you."

Athos could see the Captain's hands clenched to fists. He guessed that Treville had known about Gino's relationship to Suard's family. Perhaps that's why Treville granted him a place among the musketeers despite his lack of a commission. Athos just kept staring at his superior, and decided to share what he knew.

"Gino told Aramis about the Suard family's loyalty to the King's mother before he died. That's why Suard sent Aramis into a trap where he barely made it out alive, and which killed five other marksmen. He refused to let us rescue Porthos and the other captured musketeers from Lord Eadmund. We thought he was planning treason, a treason we would have to prevent if we knew about it." Athos said it more like a question than a report, because he could read from Treville's suddenly pale face that there was more to it.

"That may have only been one reason," Treville said slowly, his voice trembling slightly. "Another may have been that Suard was trying to get revenge on me."

"You?" Athos' voice was sharp. "How?" He deserved to know everything, and he could see that Treville knew that too.

The Captain took off his hat and clenched his jaw, before he dropped back onto the chair next to Athos. "Ponts-de-Cé."

Athos raised an eyebrow. "The battle of Ponts-de-Cé? Where his brother was killed?" Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed two figures approaching slowly. Treville did not see them, but Athos knew Aramis and Porthos had noticed them and were listening attentively, though they stopped at a safe distance, giving Athos and the Captain the space they needed.

Athos leaned forward. "You really think this was to avenge a death we musketeers were not responsible for?"

Treville pressed his lips into a thin line. "Yes, I do." His eyes found Athos' again. "Because I was the one who killed the Comte's youngest son. It was me who killed Eduard Suard that day."

Athos said nothing, and he saw that neither Aramis nor Porthos made an attempt to say anything, or make themselves known. It was an uncomfortable silence. Athos did not know what Treville expected him to say, but Athos neither blamed the Captain, nor did the assumptions about why Suard did what he did help anyone now.

"I apologize," Treville continued slowly, but with a steady voice. "I apologize for what you had to endure because of something I did."

Athos couldn't help but feel puzzled that the Captain though he owed them an apology. "You are not responsible for Suard's actions or his loyalties. Don't take responsibility for that. A man is always guilty of his own actions, nobody else can carry that burden for him."

Treville shot him a grateful look and he seemed to recover himself.

"Suard's misguided path of vengeance is nothing anyone but him should take responsibility for," Aramis added from behind.

Treville turned around and laid eyes on Porthos and Aramis as well, before he looked back at Athos. "What exactly happened to Suard?"

"He was killed by an English bullet," Athos replied shortly. He did not bother to offer any further explanations.

"Two, actually, but that's not the point," Porthos added. "Despite his best efforts to the contrary, we survived Ré Island. That's all that matters right now."

The Captain looked at all three of them for a long moment, his brow furrowed with worry. "It was really bad over there, wasn't it?"

Athos swallowed down the lump in his throat and said nothing, Aramis steered his gaze towards the ground, but Porthos took it on himself to answer on their behalf.

"Well it weren't the most comfortable or relaxing couple of weeks," he said casually, "but let me assure you, Sir, we'd do this hell all over again if you asked us to."

A rare smile played around Treville's lips, and by the time he had gotten up from the chair and turned to face all three of them, he had put on his Captain's mask again.

"I know I don't show it often," he started and his eyes slowly swerved over the three of them. Athos on the bench, holding the cup of wine tightly in his hands, Aramis, leaning against the wooden beam to take weight off his leg and Porthos, standing between them with his arms crossed in front of his chest. If he hadn't known before, it was clear by now that the experiences of the past weeks had made those men inseparable. He finished.

"But I am proud of you."

* * *

_I know I said this would be the Epilogue, but change of plans. The 'Epilogue' I had written was roughly 10k words and that's a bit much. With the help of MountainCat, it was split into two chapters and a short Epilogue. Next Upload will definitely be the __last__ chapter plus the Epilogue. A promise, this time. Thank you for reading! And also thank you to Jmp for your lovely review, I am so happy to hear you enjoyed the fight._


	29. Stand Down

**XXIX. Stand Down**

_Paris, two weeks later_

"I have been shot at. Stabbed. Punched in the face; got my ribs broken. I've spent weeks starving, thirsty and in chains." Porthos' lips were barely moving, but his friends understood him perfectly. "I've lived in constant fear and on pure adrenaline in order to protect the King and what's his. For honor. For duty. And what is my reward?" Porthos made an overly dramatic pause. "Another bloody parade."

"At least it's not summer," Athos countered dryly.

Aramis answered with a confirming huff. "To be honest, after Ré Island, this parade is a vacation." His tone was numb at the mere mention of the place. "We can still barely stand on our own – don't give me that look, Athos, you know I am right – but the King wants us, _specifically,_ to attend the welcoming of the Spanish ambassador."

A shadow passed Porthos' face. "Well, there aren't that many musketeers left to take our place."

Aramis sighed. "Agreed. Still, why us? I don't think it's because we're high up in his favor or anything."

"Because the King wants to talk to us once this is done," Athos mumbled between them and interrupted the beginning of one of Aramis' and Porthos' stealthy conversations in the middle of the goddamn parade.

"How do you know that?" Porthos asked, nearly breaking formation to give Athos a surprised look. Athos could see Treville glaring at them.

He barely managed to hide an involuntary eye-roll. "I asked the Captain."

He heard Aramis chuckle next to him. "That's why I like you, Athos. So practical."

Athos chose not to reply to that, and the look Treville sent them was more than clear. Even Aramis didn't make another sound. They endured the following thirty minutes of the King and the Queen giving the Spanish ambassador a warm and only superficially enthusiastic welcome. The man was not very popular at court, a Spanish noble who often dared to disrespect the King and even the Queen, despite her Spanish heritage. He was wary of the Cardinal and Treville, however, which was probably the only reason the parade concluded without any subtle insults being directed toward the King. Treville was quite a presence at the King's side.

After everything was finally said and done, the palace guards escorted the ambassador towards the council room where he was to confer with the King later, and the Queen left accompanied by her two guards and her ladies.

Meanwhile, the young King elegantly rose from his throne and walked down the steps. He dismissed the few guards that were still waiting on both sides, and eventually, he came to a stop in front of the musketeers. Treville came to a halt a few lengths behind the King, keeping a respectful distance.

Athos, Aramis and Porthos were positioned at the front of the musketeer formation, and behind them were Guillaume, Theo and a few of the cadets who had also been put on parade duty today.

"My musketeers," the King started with a loud voice, "It is my privilege and my honor to inform you that after weeks of siege and fighting, the Duke of Buckingham has abandoned the siege of Ré Island and has withdrawn back to England. It is expected he will return in order to support the city of La Rochelle, but for now, Ré Island has been successfully defended."

He took another step towards the musketeers. Athos could see Treville behind him looking at the young king with a tense expression on his face, as if he was not sure what would follow.

"I know that the past weeks have not been easy for any of you, but I am thankful for your loyalty and the service you have given both to me and to France." The King hesitated once again and before he continued his little speech, he eyed Porthos, Athos and Aramis intensely. With a flick of his wrist, he commanded them to take a step forward. They shared a brief, skeptical look, but obediently stepped forward, their heads bowed.

The King folded his hands in front of his chest and lowered his voice. "Captain Treville has given me reports, reports that he received from other musketeers in your regiment. They are testimony to your resolution to protect both the soil and the citizens of France. Being faced with a lack of leadership motivated you three to take responsibility for your regiment, and the people you saved." Athos could see one of the King's rare, honest smiles. "I am fully aware that it is only due to your efforts that Commander Décart has been able to hold out in the citadel for so long. Many of your comrades agree that if it hadn't been for you three, the musketeers and the citizens would not have made it off of Ré Island alive."

With another hand movement, he ordered them to look up again, and so they did. All three of them looked straight ahead, like soldiers. King Louis tilted his head. "I am thankful for your loyalty, and for your endurance."

He took a step back, and with a broad grin on his face, he clapped his hands.

"And I am proud to have such honorable and brave men among my musketeers."

There was a short silence, and it was only due to a discreet signal from Treville that Athos knew what to do. He bowed his head once again, and he felt Aramis and Porthos as well as the other assembled musketeers behind him do the same.

"Thank you, your majesty" he said.

The king nodded, turned on his heel and proceeded towards the council room with the palace guards by his side. The musketeers turned towards Treville to await their orders, but their Captain, with an unusually content expression on his face, dismissed them from their duty for the day with a signal of his hand.

Athos and the others waited until the King was no longer in sight before they broke their formation. He heard Aramis exhale slowly to his right and Porthos chuckling to his left.

"Noble war heroes get a parade, and we get a thank you." He grinned. "Not that I'm complaining. I'm really not. Praise and glory are some of my favorite things, as you know."

Even Athos had a smile on his face as they turned to leave the palace side by side. "You see, this is the highest reward any of us will ever receive from his majesty."

"Is it?" Aramis sounded curious. "How so?"

Athos looked slightly amused. "Because contrary to the parades, this time, he meant what he said. And that is rare at court."

Neither Aramis nor Porthos could disagree with that, and until they left the palace grounds, they walked next to each other in silence. Aramis was still limping, and Athos was still walking stiffly, but they were all on the road to recovery. Porthos was beginning to show the scar across his eye, and Aramis had already invented a number of fake stories with which Porthos could impress the ladies.

"On a side note," Aramis interrupted the silence once they had arrived at their horses. "Did we find out yet why our reports were so late in reaching Treville? Who was responsible for making sure they did not reach Paris?"

Athos shook his head as he steadied his horse. "Nobody knows yet, but Treville has his ideas and he's going to investigate."

"Such as?" Porthos wanted to know.

"Poitiers," the swordsman answered slowly. "That's the village closest to Comte Suard's lands. It is on the route from La Rochelle to Paris. Treville thinks it might be one of the Comte's men who stole the reports and prevented them from reaching the Captain. And if that is the case…"

"…then Comte Suard is a proven English spy," Porthos finished sourly and grasped his reins a little tighter to control his nervous horse.

"Yes, except for the proof part, because at the moment, we don't have any," Aramis commented dryly as he had finally made it safely atop his horse and leant over the animal's neck. "So? What are the plans now?"

"I could use a drink," Porthos murmured with a hopeful grin on his face.

Aramis' face lit up. "That's probably the best proposition you have made today, my friend."

Athos just shrugged,"I'm sure we have earned it." And digging his heels into his horse's flanks, he led the two of them back into the city, the other musketeers following a little behind.

* * *

_In the evening_

"It seems strange, doesn't it?" Porthos keenly observed the dancing women and the arguing men in the center of the small building. Athos, Aramis and Porthos had withdrawn to a table at the back of the tavern, with a bottle of wine and three cups. A few other musketeers and a few other soldiers that had fought on Ré Island were here too. Some of them were dancing with the women, others were celebrating the liberation of the island. And again others were quietly in the corner, drinking one cup after another.

"You are just not used to it anymore," Aramis replied. He was seated opposite Porthos and next to Athos, who sat staring into his wine cup.

"Perhaps," Porthos replied. "It's been two weeks, but I fear it'll take a longer time to become used to being back in Paris. After all that has happened the past weeks, it's hard to…" He stopped, as if he was not sure what to say.

"Calm down? Relax? Not suspect danger with every step you make?" Aramis finished and sighed bitterly. "Oh, you know how it is going to be. They will say it's a victory, a glorious victory for France. That we're winners, that we prevailed and stood our ground. All until another, bigger victory comes along."

"I don't feel like a winner," Porthos said. "I feel like a survivor."

The marksman leant forward on his elbows and the table creaked ominously. "I'll tell you what nobody will admit to or dare to address, is . . ." Aramis continued, his voice devoid of all emotion.

"What we lost there," Athos finished with a dark expression on his face, his eyes focused on his wine. Aramis merely raised his glass in Athos' direction and took a good swallow.

"What France lost, what England lost," Porthos continued with a low voice. "In our minds, Re Island will never be a victory. It will always stand for loss." He received confirming grunts from Aramis and Athos. For a few minutes, they sat together in silence, and watched Théo close to the bar, doing his best to avoid a brawl with a red guard over whose uniform he had spilled some wine a few minutes ago.

"You know, if I were him, I would have punched the teeth out of that guard," Porthos grumbled and pointed towards the scene with the cup in his hands.

Aramis chuckled. "Didn't you promise the cardinal not to beat up his guards for a while?"

Porthos grimaced. "He wasn't there to hear it, was he?" He exchanged a look with Aramis and both of them started laughing. It was a relief to laugh again. Even Athos couldn't help but look amused. Porthos eventually refilled his cup.

"Let's drink. To us, who made it out of there alive, and to all those who did not." Every musketeer in the tavern fell silent listening to Porthos' toast, which originally was only meant for his own table.

After a short moment of embarrassing silence, Porthos continued. "To Laurent and Thomas. To Gino, to Frédéric, Dénis, Dorian, Daniel. To Philippe and Mathis. And to every soul, French or English, who didn't leave Ré Island alive."

"Amen!" The musketeers echoed in the tavern and even the red guards stayed silent for a moment. The musketeers knew that some of the cardinal's guards had supported Commander Décart in the citadel and had their own memories and losses to acknowledge.

Once everybody had finished their drink, the tavern noise rose back up again. Aramis not so gently grabbed the bottle of wine in front of them to refill their cups.

"I don't know, my friends…but I have a feeling Paris will treat us well. We will have adventure, excitement, and hopefully lots of opportunities to improve ourselves."

Athos lifted his gaze. "So, you mean we will have our duty?"

Aramis grimaced. "Doesn't sound exciting if you say it like that, Athos."

Porthos cleared his throat audibly and his fingers twitched nervously around his cup. "Whatever Paris has in store for us, I am glad to have you two by my side for that."

Aramis smiled and lifted his wine. "Right back at you, brother."

Athos nodded and squeezed Porthos' shoulder briefly across the table. "You know, when I first was on Ré Island with you two, I feared I would be stuck with you indefinitely." Porthos could see on Aramis' face that the marksman had a teasing comment ready, but he kicked his friend's shin underneath the table to shut him up and let Athos finish his sentence.

"Now, I am glad that I was and am able to count on you to have my back," the swordsman finished sincerely. Porthos beamed. It was unusual for Athos to share his sentiments so openly, but all three of them knew that what had happened on Ré Island had only strengthened the bond they already shared.

Aramis smiled. "There is a musketeer motto for a reason." He raised his cup. "All for one, my friends."

Porthos and Athos smiled and raised their cups as well.

"And one for all."


	30. Epilogue

_Disclaimer: Spoilers for the entire series_

**XXX. Epilogue**

_The Garrison, Paris, October 1641_

It was late in the morning when the tall, black stallion entered the garrison courtyard through the gates at a fast trot. A few musketeers were sparring, others were still seated at a table trying to eat their breakfast. It was obvious that nobody had expected visitors at this time of the day. They all looked up in confusion at the rider who skillfully brought the animal to a halt and dismounted quickly.

As soon as the first musketeer recognized him, the others jumped up to their feet as well, but the rider gestured with a smile for them to remain seated and handed the reins of his horse to the waiting stable boy.

"Min...Aramis, we did not expect you here today," a young cadet named Bernard spoke loudly. He knew that the First Minister wanted the musketeer garrison to call him by his name. In a way, he still behaved as one of them. Perhaps at heart he still was.

Aramis grinned. "Nor did I, but the Captain sent for me earlier this morning. Is he…?"

"In his office," Bernard confirmed and pointed in the direction with his head.

Aramis quickly headed up the stairs to the captain's office in the newly rebuilt garrison. It looked a lot like Treville's office all those years ago, with the simple wooden beams and a few simple windows.

The minister did not waste any time and opened the door forcefully.

Captain d'Artagnan, buried deep into a recent mission report, looked up when he heard someone enter, ready to scold a cadet for not knocking, until he recognized his old friend.

Aramis let the door fall back into place. "You know, usually when there is a meeting scheduled between the First Minister of France and the Captain of the Musketeers, the Captain makes his way to the palace, not the other way around." D'Artagnan could hear that Aramis did not really mean a single word of what he said.

D'Artagnan cleared his throat. "Well, we are testing new recruits at the moment, so I cannot attend at the palace today." An amused spark lit up his eyes. "My wife made it quite clear that she won't do the recruiting by herself once again."

Aramis raised an eyebrow. "She hasn't forgiven you the incident from last year yet, has she?"

"I don't think she ever will. But besides, I thought getting out of the court and its politics for one morning would be a welcome distraction for you," the Captain added.

"And that, my young friend, is why I like you," Aramis sighed, took off his hat and ran a hand through his hair.

"I mean, you could go and argue with Constance about it…," d'Artagnan said with a devilish grin and he almost had to laugh at Aramis' slightly apprehensive facial expression.

The minister grimaced. "I'd really rather not." He made a pause and stepped forward. "Then tell me, what is it that couldn't wait until tomorrow?"

D'Artagnan stood up and handed Aramis a letter, whose seal had already been broken. "This was delivered to the garrison this morning, by a merchant saying he came from England. It is addressed, and I quote, 'to Athos, Aramis and Porthos of the King's Musketeers.' Since Athos is not here, and Porthos is not expected back in Paris until next month, you are the only person left to hand it to."

Aramis frowned. "Well, who sent it?"

The musketeer's Captain looked affronted. "Why would I know? It is not addressed to me, and I really should not open a personal letter to one of you three."

The minister leaned against a table. "D'Artagnan?" Aramis asked again, giving the Captain a certain look.

D'Artagnan sighed. "Do you know a Mathis Fabre?"

Aramis furrowed his brow, and his eyes widened as the name he had buried very deep inside his mind brought forth memories he had locked away for years. Memories of faces he had never forgotten, of stories he hadn't talked about in a decade.

He made a step forward and snatched the letter out of d'Artagnan's hands, a little more forcefully than he had intended.

"I'll take that as a yes," d'Artagnan commented dryly, but he stood back as he watched Aramis unfold the letter. The minister's eyes quickly read over the letter, taking in every word of the crooked handwriting.

_Dear Athos, Aramis, Porthos,_

_I don't know if this letter will ever reach you. The merchant owes me a favor, but he is a crooked man and a scoundrel, so I'm not too sure about his reliability. If it does find you, I want you to know that I am alive and well. I know this information comes fourteen years too late, but I felt that I owed you not just an explanation, but an apology._

_I know you did not leave me behind on Ré Island. You would never leave one of your own behind. During the battle, I was captured by the English and later brought to Buckingham's camp. After he fled back to England, I and the other captured men, including a few of our comrades who had gone missing at Saint-Blanceau, spent a little over a year in a filthy, cruel English prison. To this date, I don't know where it is. The days were dark, and the pain after a time unbearable. Only I and one of our brothers were left when we were brought to London after Buckingham's murder. After a few months of imprisonment, we were eventually released and left with nothing. I turned to stealing and begging in order not to starve, always with the goal of returning to Paris if I could. But there was no way for me to leave London._

_I was one of the fortunate ones. I was caught stealing from a blacksmith and the fight that resulted was what probably saved my life. A noblewoman saw me, and she took me in as her sons' teacher. I have been given shelter and food, and in return, I instruct the sons of the nobility in how to defend themselves. They are kind to me, and even taught me some English. I have made a decent life here and have done well._

_About a year ago, I was able to contact my sister and learned that she and Arthur were together. Arthur convinced me to write to you, explain myself and maybe ease the weight you have been carrying all these years. Through him, I heard about what happened to Treville, and though my heart is heavy, I never expected him to go down any other way than to protect the King and France._

_I haven't worn the pauldron in years, but I don't think I ever stopped being a musketeer. Like Treville used to say, it is something rooted in the heart, not the uniform. I didn't understand it then, but I think I do now._

_By the time we had landed on Ré Island the war had been going on for almost a decade already, and now, another decade later, there is still no end in sight. I know you are closer to the conflict than I am here in England, and I wish that I could fight by your side again. I thought what happened back on Ré Island was bad, but the battlefield that central Europe has become is something we would have never believed back then. _

_Ré Island was hell on earth. And to this day, I am not sure that I have left it all behind me. But in a way, I believe I have found my place, and I am left with the fond memories of my time with the musketeers that I will always hold close to my heart. I don't know where you are, if you are even still alive, but if you are I hope you have found your places as well. And I hope it is by each other's side._

_I hope you are well, and I thank all three of you for everything you have done for me – as comrades on Ré island and as brothers in the musketeer regiment._

_Mathis Fabre_

Aramis lowered the letter between his shaking fingers but he kept staring at it as its content still worked its way to his consciousness.

"We need to show this to Athos and Porthos as soon as they are back in Paris," Aramis murmured, deep in thought.

"So?" D'Artagnan's voice managed to cut through the memories flooding Aramis' mind and he diverted his gaze from the letter and faced the Captain. "You never answered my question. Mathis Fabre?" d'Artagnan continued. "Who is he?"

Aramis smiled; reaching over he put his arm around his friend and together they walked out and stood on the balcony, watching the new cadets spar in the courtyard.

"Who is he?" Aramis echoed, his eyes far away. "He's an old friend the three of us thought we lost a long time ago. . . . In a hell called Ré Island."

**-The End-**

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_A/N: Make sure you didn't miss chapter 29 as this is a double upload.  
Thank you to everybody who made it here with me. It is the longest story I have ever written. I am very grateful for the kind words of encouragement I've received and the support you all have given this story. Also, thank you to the guest comments I couldn't reply to personally. I loved writing this piece, and I hope that the ending was somewhat satisfying. I'll probably stick around with a few shorter stories or one-shots every now and again.  
And a very big thank you to MountainCat for not only proofing this story and eradicating my weird second-language grammar mistakes, but also for her all over support and ideas, which improved this little story of mine tremendously. I like to think of this as a co-production. Thank you!_

_And at last, in these weird times we live in: Be kind to each other. Be kind to yourself, and let's make sure we get out of this stronger. Stay safe and well._

_Thank you for reading and for your support._


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